


(He Is) Not My Friend

by Barbara69



Series: The Witcher And His Bard [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen, Kissing, M/M, Memory Loss, Pre-Slash, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: Geralt was stunned, not trusting if he'd heard right. Not his friend? He took another step towards Jaskier, reaching for him.“You can't force me to go with him. I don't know him!” Jaskier cried again, trying to wriggle out of Geralt's grip. “He's not my friend!”Geralt released Jaskier. The bard's words were like a slap in the face. He is not my friend...Suddenly, the Witcher is nothing more than a dangerous mutant for Jaskier, a monster he tries desperately to get away from. Geralt, on the other hand, just wants to keep the bard out of danger – or alive actually – while trying to figure out what has happened. In the process, Geralt learns a few things about his own feelings for the bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher And His Bard [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842652
Comments: 46
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta reader fredbasset! Remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are all mine.

Geralt had sensed subliminal hostility as soon as they had crossed the town boundary. If it had been his decision, he would have turned around immediately, or at least not asked for a room for the night. A hasty meal and a quick parting afterwards and he would have set up camp somewhere to the north, in the woods.

In his opinion, a warm bed and a roof over their heads was not worth risking open animosity, but the bard had been totally oblivious to the hostile looks and been so happy at the prospect of a bed and warm meals after two weeks on the road that Geralt had kept silent. The weather had worsened, and rain and sleet had accompanied their travels, and who was he to rob Jaskier of the opportunity to take a bath and dry his clothes and sleep in a bed? The bard was cut from different cloth to Geralt, and the last couple of weeks certainly had left its mark on Jaskier.

Still, Geralt couldn't believe how fast the evening had gone south and the subliminal hostility had turned into open hatred, ensuring an eruption of violence. Stubborn as he was, Jaskier had decided to neglect Geralt's well-meant advice not to sing songs of the Witcher's heroic deeds, or, actually, not to sing at all. He was halfway through his second ballad when a few patrons started throwing cabbage and bread at the bard, the shouted insults soon turning into threats. Geralt wasn't sure what finally made the patrons stop shouting and start a fight, but when he rose and signalled to Jaskier that they should leave, the attention turned to him, and with it the people's fury.

“Bugger off, Witcher! The likes of you are not wanted here!” someone shouted, throwing an empty cup in Geralt's direction.

Geralt dodged the flying object and grabbed his swords. He was not out for a fight. If they left now, he might not have to spill blood.

“Creatures like you should not be allowed to roam!”

“Clear off, you abominable monstrosity! Go and steal children elsewhere!”

“And take your puppy with you!” a sturdy man shouted. “His howling is an insult to our ears, even more so with the lies he propagates! Everyone knows that witchers are the real monsters of the continent!”

Geralt watched the man turn and spit in front of Jaskier, muttering something like _dirty witcher friend._ Before Geralt could take a step towards the bard, he was firmly shoved in the back.

“Told you to leave!” someone slurred, in a voice thick with alcohol. “Get going before I make you!”

Geralt turned to scare the drunkard away with a snarl and a scowl, but as he did so he heard a squeal from the bard, followed by a thud sounding just like a body hitting the ground. Turning around he saw Jaskier lying on the floor, one of the patrons standing over him, arms still raised in front of him.

“Serves you right, braggart!” the man snarled, emphasising his words by kicking the bard's side.

Geralt heard a low growl, realising a second later that it was coming from him. Striding towards the prone Jaskier, he shoved a couple of men aside but before he reached his friend, he was pushed again from behind, nearly losing his footing from the blow. With a last look at Jaskier, he turned and hit the man behind him with an accurate blow on the chest, causing his counterpart to stumble back and crash into some other patrons. This caused an outcry of the bystanders and a couple of them launched themselves at Geralt.

Geralt fought off the first attacker by knocking his left elbow square in the man's face, the second he felled with a stroke of his fist, equally straight in the face, giving both a bloody and most likely broken nose. While dealing with attackers number three and four, he received a blow on the head and a painful punch to the kidney, and returned the favour by knocking the fifth man unconscious and robbing number six of his front teeth with another well-aimed blow. 

“Stop it! I don't want trouble and I don’t mean to harm you. We will leave!” Geralt shouted, quickly glancing to where Jaskier still lay unconscious on the floor. He couldn't see blood or any other sign of serious injuries, but it worried him that Jaskier had still not regained consciousness. He wondered whether the bard been knocked unconscious by the sturdy man who'd insulted him or if he had hit his head somewhere while falling. Not that it made any difference, he'd need to quickly check why Jaskier hadn’t woken up, hence he had no time to deal with angry patrons.

A bowl hit Geralt on the temple, fuelling his anger further. Despite being used to it for as long as he could remember, he just hated how some folks unquestioningly despised witchers in general. Apparently, he had let himself be lulled by the warm receptions he had received of late, since Jaskier had started painting another picture of a witcher's business, and of Geralt of Rivia specifically. Thanks to the bard and his songs, he had almost felt respected and treated as an equal in the towns they had come through, but he should have known that especially in Temeria, his kin was at best treated with scorn and forcibly chased away, or at worst, killed. This age-old, violent aversion could not be changed by whatever songs the bard sang.

Geralt dealt a blow to the jaw of the man closest to him and knocked another one off his feet with a jab of his elbow into the man's face. He honestly didn't want to use his sword and leave a bloodbath behind, even if this was probably exactly what everyone here expected of him. He punched another one hard in the guts and glowered at the rest of the patrons.

It seemed the number of men groaning and writhing in pain on the floor had sobered some of the drunkards. The crowd stared at him spitefully, but no one made a move to attack or throw more cutlery.

“Leave!” the innkeeper barked in a deep voice. “We have no need here for a witcher nor room for you. Creatures like you shouldn't even be allowed to enter a tavern, or a town at all.”

“Didn't stop you from taking our money when we asked for a room earlier,” Geralt replied angrily. “It seems greed still excels any dislikes or rules.”

“Oi! Leave me be!”

Hearing the bard, Geralt turned and watched Jaskier being hauled up by the sturdy man who had hit him.

Flailing with his arms, Jaskier tried to shove the man's arms away. “Don't touch me! Leave me alone! What do you want from me?”

Geralt furrowed his brow. Something in the bard's voice sounded wrong. He shoved a hunchback and one of the whores who served the inn out of his way to get to Jaskier. It was time to get out of town before the burst of hatred boiled up again.

“Shut up, witcher friend!” the sturdy man growled. “I tell you what I want. I want to see you gone, you and your witcher! Don't you dare sing your untruthful songs here ever again. It's all eyewash and we won’t fall for it. Leave this town and never come back!”

Geralt reached Jaskier and grabbed his arm, partly, to steady his friend who looked a bit wobbly on his feet, but mainly to drag Jaskier away with him. The sooner they left, the greater the chance they'd circumvent further trouble. Geralt really had no desire to confirm the people's opinion of him as no more than a butcher and a monster. 

“Come,” he muttered.

Jaskier recoiled from Geralt, tearing away from his grip. Frantically, he looked around. “What do you mean?” he cried, looking at the man who had insulted and hit him. “You're wrong. I'm not his friend! I don't even know this man!”

Geralt was stunned, not trusting if he'd heard right. _Not his friend?_ He took another step towards Jaskier, reaching for him.

Again, Jaskier backed away from the Witcher, bumping into the men behind him. One of them gave the bard a shove so he stumbled forward, dashing headfirst into Geralt's broad chest.

Geralt seized the opportunity and grabbed Jaskier firmly by his shoulders. “Stop being such a dork. If you don't want to be whacked over the head with your own lute, you and I are leaving now.”

“You can't force me to go with him. I don't know him!” Jaskier cried again, trying to wriggle out of Geralt's grip. “He's not my friend!”

Geralt released Jaskier. The bard's words were like a slap in the face.

_He is not my friend..._

What had gotten into Jaskier to say that? Had he lost his mind from the blow to the head? Had he hit his head so hard that he'd lost a few marbles? Geralt took a step back, away from Jaskier. “I'm leaving. Come with me or don't, I don't care. But don't put the blame on me afterwards when you realise you're in the shit.”

Geralt turned and made his way through the crowd, ignoring the sullen looks and sporadic blows he received on his way out.

“Oi! Where are you going? You brought him here, now take him with you!” someone shouted.

“But I don't want to go with him! I don't even know him! You can't make me. If I came with him, then it was because he forced me.”

Geralt reached the door and looked back. He saw how some of the drunkards had started shoving Jaskier around. The bard looked like a fawn thrown into a basilisk's den, completely clueless about what was happening and why. Geralt sighed and strode back to Jaskier, making good use of his elbows and not minding if he left bloody noses or bruised ribs. The patrons' collective resentment rose again and so did the blatant threats and violent insults. Geralt didn't pay attention to them.

He grabbed Jaskier by the collar with his right hand and the lute with his left and dragged the struggling and grumbling bard with him. As parting gift, someone threw a couple of tomatoes at them. The crowd roared when one of them hit Geralt, splitting open on his shoulder pauldron, and another caught on Jaskier's hair.

Geralt shouldered the door open. As soon as he was outside in the rain with a struggling Jaskier, he could now clearly smell what had been mingled before with the amount of odour in the taproom, and what he had not picked up from the bard for a very long time, and much less in this intensity. Jaskier was afraid of Geralt.

“Please, leave me! I've done nothing wrong! It's unfair to use your body size against someone who’s smaller! I'm just a---” Jaskier trailed off.

Geralt let go of the bard, who immediately backed off a few steps away from the Witcher.

“You are just a what?” Geralt asked.

They stared at each other for a while without speaking. Jaskier wide-eyed, tense and emitting an odour of fear and unease. Geralt appraising, trying to find out what had happened to his friend, and why he was behaving so oddly, seemingly more afraid of Geralt than of the brutes in the tavern.

“Jaskier,” Geralt finally said. “Do you even remember who I am? Or who you are?”

Jaskier stared at Geralt, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times as if he wanted to say something. Finally, he replied, “You... you're a witcher.”

Geralt sighed. “Right. And do you happen to know my name? Or yours?”

“I'm Jaskier,” the bard replied quickly.

“Yeah, obviously,” Geralt muttered. “If I had called you Dandelion you'd have said that.”

“What part of 'leave this town' didn't you get?” one of the patrons who had come to the door, called. “Do we really have to make you?”

Someone threw a stone, missing Jaskier's head by a hand’s breadth. Jaskier flinched and took a couple of steps away from the tavern.

Geralt followed the bard and grabbed him by his arm, dragging Jaskier with him to the small shelter beside the tavern where he had left his horse. Geralt mentally congratulated himself for his circumspection in leaving Roach saddled and ready to go until they knew for sure if they were staying in town. He had just known it would not be wise to unsaddle and rub her down before retiring to their room.

“Listen, there are two things you can do now. Trust me and come with me out of town. Clearly, you must have realised these folks are not very well-disposed towards us. I don't know what happened, but it seems you've lost your memory and can't remember who I am or who you are. Otherwise you wouldn't have denied that we are friends. Or, and this is your other option, you can decide to part ways with me and fend for yourself. We had planned to go our separate ways in a couple of days, anyway. You wanted to return to Oxenfurt and I will head for Kaer Morhen.”

While talking, Geralt untied Roach, made sure that his saddlebags were still firmly fixed, and lashed the lute to the saddle. He led Roach out of the shelter, keeping an eye on the men still lingering in the door of the tavern. He could sense their tension, probably unsure whether they should attack the Witcher again or just return to their tankards and goblets full of beer and wine.

“I can't force you to come with me, but I'd strongly suggest it. I doubt you will get far on your own, not in your condition.”

Geralt mounted Roach, bringing her alongside Jaskier with a small pressure of his thigh.

“I don't want to come with you,” Jaskier finally said. “I'll go on my own, I don't trust you. You are a witcher.”

“Fine.” Geralt bent down, grabbed the back of Jaskier's coat and hauled him up, throwing the bard across Roach's back in front of him.

“Oi! What's that? You said you wouldn't force me!”

“Yeah, well, that was a lie,” Geralt muttered, spurring Roach on.

Roach quickly fell into an extended trot while Geralt struggled with Jaskier who tried to escape the Witcher's vice-like grip. “Damn it, Jaskier! Can't you just once try to not be such a pain in the arse? If you keep struggling, you'll fall and break your neck.”

The rain increased while dusk turned to night and Geralt knew he needed to find shelter soon. With nightfall, it would get even colder, and both of them were drenched and he was so done with trying to keep a struggling Jaskier pinned to Roach's back.

After they had crossed the town boundary, Geralt soon turned his horse into the woods, and instantly the rain eased off due to the dense conifers and the thick canopy of trees that had not yet shed their leaves. He spotted a place that looked dry enough that they could set up a camp and start a small fire. The moment he stopped Roach, Jaskier let himself slip down from the horse and took a couple of steps away from the Witcher.

“How dare you take me with you! You've no right! I demand you let me go immediately! I might not actually know what has happened before I came to in the taproom, but I definitely know that I don't want to be hauled along by a witcher!”

Even though Geralt clearly picked up the fear resonating in the bard's angry voice, he started to set up camp without taking notice of Jaskier and his rant. He unsaddled Roach, putting his saddlebags, bedrolls, sheath and the lute to the ground. Then he unbridled the horse and tied her to one of the small trees, where Roach could nibble bark, moss and fern.

Still ignoring the bard's tirade, he quickly piled up kindling, lichens and pine cones and started a fire by casting a small burst of Igni at the pile. He was too tired to search for his flintstone and try to light damp wood.

His use of witcher magic thankfully also ended Jaskier's stream of curses and threats.

Geralt added a couple more partly dry branches and then turned towards his bags.

“Why don't you let me go?” Jaskier asked eventually, cutting through the silence that had settled over their make-shift camp after Geralt's display of magic.

Geralt rolled out his and Jaskier's bedroll, one opposite the other with the small fire in between. Sighing, he finally looked up at Jaskier. “You're free to go. I’m not holding you. But look, why would I carry your bedroll and your belongings along with my things if we hadn't already been travelling together?” Geralt nodded to the bedroll Jaskier used when they camped outside.

Jaskier looked from the bedroll to the saddlebags to Geralt and back again to the bedroll. Tentatively, he took a couple of steps towards the fire. Geralt could see him shiver, the air around them had turned frosty and the wet clothes did nothing to keep out the chill.

“Sit down by the fire or you'll catch a cold, as well as the memory gaps you apparently have.”

Jaskier hesitated, and Geralt could almost grasp the indefinable fear rolling off the bard in waves. He had no idea what the bard's behaviour meant, but it was obvious that somewhere in his past Jaskier must have had negative experiences with witchers, ingraining in him a fear that had resurfaced after he had lost parts of his memory.

“Why am I travelling with you?” Jaskier asked warily, inching a bit closer to the fire and reaching out his hands towards the warmth of the flames. “It doesn't make sense. Witchers are loners.”

Geralt perked a brow. “How would you know, when apparently you can't remember anything else?”

Jaskier seemed a bit surprised himself by his knowledge of witchers, but he held Geralt's gaze, shrugging after a moment. “Well? Why am I here?”

Geralt just couldn't help himself; for him, the whole situation had such an absurd air of comedy and he was tired, cold and all in all not used to dealing with amnesia-infested bards. “I earned you. You were my payment for killing a monster.”

Jaskier's eyes turned round. “Really? But how? I mean, who gave me as payment to you? Whom did I belong to before?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask and most certainly didn't care. I guess it was someone who inherited you before? Or maybe your family? It's not uncommon for families to pay their debts by giving children away.”

Jaskier gasped and stared at Geralt, stricken with horror. “Children? How long have I been travelling with you?”

“I'm not sure, how old do you think you are?”

An puzzled expression appeared on the bard's face. He looked down, examining the fabric of his jacket, and stroked his chin with its practically non-existent stubble. His mien resembled a drowned puppy.

“Easy, Jaskier, calm down. It was a joke. You're travelling with me because you chose to. You can leave whenever you like. I never forced you to come with me. In fact, initially I even didn't want you to accompany me, you just did. Couldn't shake you off.” Geralt smiled to himself when he recalled his first encounter with Jaskier.

Finally, Jaskier shrugged out of his jacket and sat down on his bedroll, making sure he was close to the fire but as far away from the Witcher as possible. “Ha ha, who'd thought witchers could be funny,” he grumbled, only to frown a second later. “ _Are_ witchers funny? It feels strange, like usually they aren't... Well, then, tell me how we allegedly met and why we are here. What happened back in that tavern?”

And so, Geralt told him concisely how they had met, why they were in Temeria and how the situation in the tavern had led to Jaskier losing his memory.

“And?” Jaskier asked after Geralt had finished.

“And what?”

“What happened in the years we've supposedly been travelling together?”

“This and that,” Geralt answered vaguely, stretching out on his bedroll. The heat from the fire started drying his clothes and making him tired. He closed his eyes. Two seconds later he opened them again and sat up. “I forgot to ask, are you hurt? Evidently, you must've hit your head hard, I can't think of another explanation for your loss of memory. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Unwell?”

Jaskier stared back at the Witcher. “Erm, no. I don't think so, but my head hurts a little. Why again did I choose to travel with a witcher?”

Geralt sighed, laying back down. “Frankly, I really don't know. You just did and I never questioned why.” That wasn't true, but it wouldn't help Jaskier if Geralt voiced his initial non-understanding and astonishment about why someone would freely choose to befriend a witcher and travel with him. 

Whether Jaskier was content with this answer or not, Geralt couldn't judge, but the bard stayed silent and Geralt closed his eyes again, listening to the sound of the forest and picking up on Jaskier's uneven heartbeat and his still strong smell of fear.

When Geralt was on the brink of dozing off, Jaskier spoke again.

“Why do you call me Jaskier? That's not my real name, right?”

Geralt turned his head to look at his companion. Jaskier hadn't laid down yet, but he had inched a bit closer to the fire so his clothing could dry. “No. Your name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, but you call yourself Jaskier. Jaskier the bard. See,” Geralt added, nodding towards the lute. “I don't know why you decided to adopt an alias, but Jaskier suits you.”

“Hm. I recall the name Julian. Jaskier didn't feel right, but, yeah, I think there's a distant memory of it. Julian. Alfred. Lettenhove....” Jaskier tested the sound of the names in a low voice before he trailed off. Staring into the fire, he seemed to ponder what he had just heard.

Geralt looked closely at the bard, wondering if his memory was coming back. Which would be a blessing, given the fact that he was tired and not in the mood to explain in even more detail the nature of their friendship. Moreover, they had no time to further explore the question of whether or not they were friends and should travel together. Soon snowfall would make travelling even harder than before and they needed to reach their destinations.

“Where are we heading to? And why were the people back in town so hostile towards us? What did you do? Why were we there at all?”

Geralt sighed. There went his quiet night. “The people were outraged because especially in Temeria witchers are not welcome, to put it mildly. Me simply just being there was enough to make them angry and your singing didn't leaven the atmosphere, either. And we came through here because we're heading back to our quarters for winter. You to Oxenfurt and I to the witcher stronghold in Kaedwen.”

Jaskier stayed quiet, his mind apparently lingering on the sounds of Oxenfurt and Kaedwen, Geralt saw his lips voicelessly whispering words.

“As far as I know you studied in Oxenfurt, and that's where you sometimes spend the winter months when travelling is arduous. I retire to Kaer Morhen once a year when winter comes, to see my brothers and to recuperate. And that's a problem now. If I accompany you to Oxenfurt, I won't be able to make it to Kaer Morhen before the passes are impassable. If I don't go with you, however, I can't be sure if you'll survive long enough to even make it to the banks of the Pontar. I doubt you even remember in which direction Oxenfurt, or Redania, lies.” Geralt sighed. “Plus, I still don't know what caused your memory loss, maybe you're more severely hurt than we know.”

“I could see a healer.”

“Yes, that's something you could do if you had money to pay him. We spent our last coins on the room the innkeeper grumpily offered us and we never saw from the inside. Unless you've still got some hidden treasure somewhere, we're as good as broke.”

“So, that's the nature of our so-called friendship? I play the lute and sing and you do, what?”

Inwardly, Geralt cringed at the words 'so-called', but maybe he deserved it. Time and again he had reminded the bard in the early days that they were not friends but just travel companions. He couldn't complain if this was now coming back at him.

“I do what witchers usually do, what they've been created for. I kill monsters and get paid for it if I'm lucky.”

“And why should I trust you to be not the abominable butcher apparently everyone else sees in you? Witchers are malevolent and dangerous mutants. How can I be sure you won't hurt or kill me whenever it pleases you?”

“Well, obviously you can't be sure,” Geralt snapped. “Maybe I'm doing all this here just to lull you into safety so I can kill and eat you later after I've howled at the moon and performed some unholy, magical rituals.”

Glowering at Jaskier, Geralt reclined and closed his eyes. He didn't know why, but it was unnerving how Jaskier challenged every word or explanation he made. In the last hour, he had talked more than he usually did in a week and it had led nowhere, and he wasn't in the mood for this any more.

He heard Jaskier move about, probably finally lying down.

After his anger had subsided a bit, Geralt could admit to himself that it wasn't annoyance he felt due to Jaskier's leery questions. It was hurt.

He had never cared whether people liked him or not, whether they despised him or treated him as vermin. He was a witcher and such was his life. But now that the only being who had liked him from the beginning, had seen things in him Geralt never had and had trusted him without reservation, was fearing him without even knowing why, hurt Geralt more than he was willing to admit to himself.

Jaskier's friendship was probably the most precious and consistent thing in his life, something he had only reluctantly allowed, constantly challenged with his behaviour and taken for granted as of recently. And now he had lost it. He'd need to work harder than ever before to prove himself worthy of Jaskier's friendship and to gain his trust again.

The problem was, he didn't know how to do this when Jaskier flinched from his every move and thought him to be nothing else than a despicable, non-human creature.

Enjoying the warmth from the fire and waiting for the bard's heartbeat to get more regular, Geralt dwelled on these thoughts for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt woke with a start. He hadn't meant to fall asleep but given the fact that the fire had almost died down, he realised he must have slept for a couple of hours. He sat up and looked at Jaskier, but his bedroll was empty. Cursing under his breath he stood up and looked around.

“Fuck!”

His outburst of emotion startled Roach who was dozing a few metres away. She snorted at him reproachfully.

Geralt closed his eyes and focused. He couldn't hear the bard, nor did he sense him, which meant he must have left a while ago. His smell, however, was still strong and Geralt hoped it wouldn't be hard to follow the trace.

He stamped out the embers, packed up and saddled Roach.

Geralt knew Jaskier couldn't have gotten far. However, it didn't stop him from cursing under his breath every now and then because, _of course,_ Jaskier had chosen to flee into the wrong direction, further away from their intended destination. Luckily, even if Jaskier was running all the time, it wasn't a head start Geralt wouldn't soon be able to catch up with, especially because Jaskier was on foot while Geralt had Roach.

Geralt spotted Jaskier at dawn on the road to Hagge, hanging upside down. The bard was flailing his arms and showering abuse on the two gaunt woodsman who had lifted him up, each of them holding one of Jaskier's boots in their hands. Cackling, the men were about to rob the bard of his boots by shaking him out of them. Before Jaskier could hit his head again once the boots came loose, Geralt spurred his horse and came out of the woods. His sudden appearance made the men stop. Jaskier couldn't see him because his face was turned in the other direction and struggled on.

“Let him down,” Geralt growled, stopping Roach with a tug on the reins while unsheathing his sword. “And do it carefully.”

“Why should we?” one of the man asked, eyeing Geralt warily. “We found him, we can do what we want. We just want his nice, smart boots.”

“And the coat! The nice coat, it looks cosy and smart!” the other man seconded, cackling again.

Geralt sighed. Dealing with woodsmen was always so exhausting. Pointing the tip of his sword at the head of one of them, Geralt said, “If you do as I say, I'll let you live.”

Hearing Geralt’s voice, Jaskier struggled even more, apparently trying to catch a glimpse of him.

“But you already have shiny boots, why would you need another pair?” one of the woodsmen said. “We don't have, we need them.”

Geralt dismounted and stepped up closer. The woodsmen showed no signs of fear, which could most likely be traced back to the fact that most of them were too simple-minded to show fear even if threatened by danger. Unfortunately, it was also said that despite their lean stature and dimwittedness, woodsmen had exceptional strength. Otherwise Jaskier wouldn't be dangling from their grip like a skinned hare.

Geralt put the tip of his sword on the chest of the man nearest to him. “If you don't put him down and leave him alone, I'll kill you both. He's under my protection.”

The men looked at each other.

Jaskier flailed about.

“Or, I will cast a spell on you two, and turn you into, let's say, beetles. I'm a powerful witcher.”

Looking Geralt up and down again, this finally convinced the men. He _did_ look like a witcher after all.

“You can have him,” one of them said, and without the carefulness Geralt had hoped for, they dropped Jaskier.

“Ouch!” the bard cried.

“You have ten seconds,” Geralt growled.

The woodsman looked puzzled. “For what?”

“To get out of my sight. Otherwise I'll turn you into a stink bug and crush you afterwards with one of my shiny boots.”

It took less than a second before the two turned and hastened away, grumbling curses under their breath.

Before Jaskier could do the same, Geralt grabbed him by the shoulder. “Jaskier.”

The bard looked at him with a mixture of uncertainty and defiance.

“You went in the wrong direction. Exactly wrong direction, to be precise. If you want to go to Oxenfurt, you need to head west.” Geralt pointed behind himself with his sword, before sheathing it on his back.

“Maybe I'm not heading to Oxenfurt,” Jaskier replied defiantly.

“And where are you heading to?”

When Jaskier didn't reply, Geralt let his gaze roam over the landscape behind him. Geralt knew the road led to Hagge, and he also knew what lay behind Hagge. Nothing of interest for Jaskier, but a lot of trouble for the bard if he continued on his own. On the other side, and not exactly advantageous for his own decision making or the situation as such, Hagge also lay on Geralt’s way to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt hadn't intended to travel through Hagge but further north, through Murivel, though it wouldn't make much difference and if he continued from here, he would be able to reach his destination in time before the winter storms. He took a step towards Jaskier, stopping immediately when the bard backed off two steps.

“Look, we could continue from here to Hagge and beyond, it's on the way to Kaer Morhen. You could come with me. You'd be safe there, could recuperate and have a roof over your head during winter.”

“Kaer Morhen? Didn't you say it's a kind of witcher stronghold where witchers gather during winter?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier snorted angrily, arms akimbo. “Ha! Nice try! If you think I'll fall for your attempt to lure me to your witcher's den, think again! Why are you even following me? Didn't you stress more than once that I'm free to go? How often do I have to repeat myself? I don't want to travel with you! Leave me alone! I can't remember anything of what you said and frankly, I'm more than sceptical whether there's a grain of truth in any of your words! I know what you want. To lull me into a false sense of security. I'm not dumb, even if I might have memory gaps at the moment. I know witchers can't breed, therefore you steal children.” Challengingly, Jaskier stared at Geralt.

Stoically, Geralt listened to Jaskier's rant, but the last words were like another slap to the face. Apparently, he hadn't been able to keep his mien neutral, because a smirk appeared on the bard's face.

“Called it,” Jaskier said lowly, grinning triumphantly. “But even you will have noticed I'm not a child, so, what do you want with me?”

Geralt looked at Jaskier with what he hoped would pass as an expression of sincerity. He had never been good with words, and even his most benevolent look was often misread as display of grumpiness.

“You forgot your lute,” he said, nodding towards Roach and the lute strapped to the saddle. “I thought you'd want it.”

This kind of stole some of Jaskier's thunder. “Oh... Okay. Right. Thanks, I guess...” he muttered. Steering clear of Geralt, Jaskier strolled to Roach to get his lute. “I'll go then. Erm, this way. Thanks anyway.” He rounded the horse and started walking back, heading west.

Geralt smiled to himself. At least he had been able to nudge the bard into walking into the right direction. Now he just needed to get him going and keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't get in trouble again. He stepped up to Roach. “We'll give him a head start and follow at a decent distance.”

He watched Jaskier trudge along the muddy road and realised after a while, that with every step, Jaskier was upping the pace. It was obvious that he was trying to get away from the Witcher as fast as possible without giving the impression that he was doing exactly that. Geralt's smile broadened. “Soon he'll break into a trot,” he said, and Roach snorted by way of an answer. “I'm afraid if his condition doesn't improve soon, we might have to give up Kaer Morhen this year,” he added with a sigh.

Geralt was really worn out from the year on the road, and some injuries he had sustained still bothered him a bit. He had looked forward to curing them completely in his winter shelter, while having time to recuperate and see his witcher brothers. And he dearly needed to stock up on his herbs, potions and medicine. He had no idea what he would do if he didn't reach the passes up to Kaer Morhen before snow cut it off from the outside world.

When Jaskier was no more than a dark dot on the road, almost indiscernible from the trees left and right of the path, Geralt tugged at the reins and urged Roach to start moving beside him.

*******

Geralt followed Jaskier at a safe distance. If Jaskier turned around to check if he was being followed, he would not see more than two dark dots along the way, probably indiscernible from the wood around them. Geralt's sharp witcher eyes, however, never lost sight of the bard. 

Around noon, Jaskier's gait grew slower, Geralt could tell that the bard was tired and probably hungry. They hadn't eaten anything since the evening before, and Geralt also felt hunger tugging at his empty stomach. He decided it was time to put an end to this game of cat-and-mouse and catch up with Jaskier. If the bard still hadn't gained some common sense in the meantime and still showed aversion to the Witcher, Geralt would knock him unconscious, tie him to Roach and haul him to Oxenfurt. Certainly, Jaskier had friends there or a matron or patroness who were well-disposed towards the bard and where he could stay, even if he didn't remember them.

Geralt assumed that Jaskier had not lost all of his memory. He seemed to remember his youth and even his time in Oxenfurt, otherwise there was no sound explanation why he would remember his apparent fear of witchers and nothing else. It seemed, the blow to his head had only erased a few years from Jaskier's mind, probably only the years he had known Geralt and travelled with him. And in place of his friendship with Geralt a never before seen horror of witchers had been brought up instead.

Geralt refused to think this through out of fear there _might_ be a reason why Jaskier had forgotten about his friendship with the Witcher, and one he didn't like to hear.

Shaking off his musings, he mounted Roach and spurred her. The sooner he reached Jaskier, the sooner he could share his last ration of stale bread and get going with Jaskier in tow.

He blinked.

Jaskier was gone. Where a moment ago the dark dot embodying the bard had been, now only the road stretched in front of Geralt, empty of any living or moving being. Geralt spurred Roach into a canter. Maybe Jaskier had fainted from exhaustion or hunger and was lying in the roadside ditch. Or maybe he had needed to pee and disappeared into the bushes.

When he had reached the spot where he had last seen Jaskier, Geralt halted Roach and looked around, inhaling deeply. He could smell that Jaskier was still nearby. Dismounting, he let his gaze sweep over the edge of the woods until he spotted a trace; trampled grass and moss, ruffled leaves and broken branches on a small bush were a sure indication that someone had left the road and entered the forest.

With a gesture of his hand, Geralt instructed Roach to stay and wait for him, then he followed the trace. It didn't take him more than a few steps until he spotted Jaskier through the densely growing trees. Geralt stopped and watched.

Jaskier crept around, slowly and crouched, now and then bending forward to pick up something. It took a moment for Geralt to understand that the bard had not completely lost his mind once and for all but was apparently looking for something edible, maybe mushrooms or berries. Geralt shook his head slightly. At this time of the year, it was almost impossible to find fruits or mushrooms, and nuts or seeds had already been hoarded by squirrels, birds and any other woodlander. But this fact was probably another thing that had slipped Jaskier's mind.

Instead of shouting across the forest, Geralt slowly approached the bard. “What exactly are you looking for?” he asked in a low voice once he was near enough.

Jaskier started at the sound of Geralt's voice, dropped a few beechnuts, caught his left foot on a root when hastily taking a step back and toppled on his back, yelping when he hit the ground.

Geralt perked a brow, impressed that Jaskier had actually managed to find a few leftover beechnuts.

“What the hell? Didn't you say your witcher keep is in the opposite direction? Why are you still following me, sneaking up on me like a burglar in the night? Can't you just leave me alone? Haven't I made it clear that I don't want to be molested by you any longer? I'm not coming with you, look elsewhere for a child you can steal or whatever it is you're planning to do.”

Jaskier rose, wiping his hands clean on his trousers. 

“I don't know you, even if you insist we do know each other and that I should remember you. For me, you're an absolute stranger, and a witcher at that. If I've learned one thing in my life, then it's that witchers can't be trusted. They are dangerous. Maybe you're not, but erm, well,” Jaskier stuttered, finally pointing at the sword strapped to Geralt's back. “In appearance, you look pretty dangerous, what with your big sword and grumpy expression and overall impressive....” he trailed off.

“I can't let you travel alone, it's too dangerous. If you can't bear having me around you, fine. I'll follow you at safe distance to make sure you don't fall among highwayman or worse, and won't lose your way.”

“I don't need a babysitter, least of all a witcher doing the job. I'm capable of looking after myself.”

“Yeah, I've seen. You did a tremendous job with the two woodsmen.”

“That was an unfortunate mistake! If you haven't lied and this is the way to Oxenfurt, then I don't need your company any longer.”

Geralt had to swallow down his rising anger. He was on the brink of bending to Jaskier's will, turning around and making his way to Kaer Morhen. There was only so many biting remarks he was willing to bear. Taking a deep breath, he said calmly, “You might not remember, but it was a wet summer resulting in a poor harvest. People are hungry, starving, and winter will be hard. These woodsmen were willing to kill you over a pair of your boots, and they are not even rogue people as such. In the south, there are rumours of an upcoming war. The roads are not safe, especially for a unarmed bard who's lost parts of his memory.”

Apparently, Jaskier didn't have an answer to that, he just stared at Geralt who could see the bard's brain cells running at full speed.

“I thought you might be hungry. I have a small portion of stale bread and dried meat left in my saddlebags. Let's eat something and then you can hit the road again. I'll follow so far behind you won't even see me. Agreed?”

Jaskier seemed to ponder what Geralt had said. Finally, he seemed to have made up his mind. “Why are you bothering so much about my well-being if you don't have ulterior motives? Why don't you just go on and continue your travel to Kaer Morhen, if you need to get there before snow sets in?”

“Because you're my friend.”

He didn't know if it was the words or the sincerity with which he had uttered them, but for once, Jaskier didn't reply. At least not immediately.

Strangely, the bard looked at Geralt with an undefinable expression.

To emphasis his good intentions towards the bard, and to appear less intimidating, Geralt turned and made his way back to where he had left Roach on the road. “If you're hungry, come to where I'll be waiting with Roach,” he said without looking back. He _hoped_ Jaskier would follow him, but he was far from sure.

When Jaskier came out of the woods a while later, neither of them spoke. Geralt silently handed him a chunk of bread, relieved he wouldn't have to chase him through the forest and knock him unconscious after all. They ate in silence, chewing on the bread that felt like old shoe leather, and tasted equally bad. After they had washed it down with a gulp from the waterskin, Geralt addressed a topic that had bothered him while he was waiting for Jaskier to come out of the forest.

“You said that if you've learned one thing in your life, then it's that witchers can't be trusted. How did you learn that? Or, rather, how come you remember things like that, but not the friendship we have shared these past years?”

Instead of answering, Jaskier stared at Geralt, finally shrugging his shoulders. “I remember a lot of things, just nothing in relation to you,” he said, and for the first time since his memory loss it didn't sound hostile, just matter-of-fact.

“What's the last thing you remember? Where are you and what are you doing? How old are you?”

“Eight,” Jaskier answered after a moment of contemplation. “I'm eight years old.”

“Eight?” Geralt gasped in shock, louder than he had intended.

_Well, that at least explained the childish behaviour!_

Horrified by the bard's statement, Geralt wondered how Jaskier could have been robbed of nearly twenty years of memories. How would he ever be able to regain his memories of his adult life? And what must have happened to him at that young age to make his fear of witchers so ingrained in him, when as a grown man he had not shown or mentioned anything? And, most importantly, how would Geralt ever be able to handle a quasi-eight-year-old Jaskier and gain his trust?

Jaskier must have seen something in the Witcher's mien change, most probably Geralt nearly losing his composure over the bard's statement, because a smirk crawled up Jaskier's face until it reached his eyes, finally lighting up his whole face.

“No, wait! Wait! It was a joke, okay?” Jaskier said hurriedly, likely just now becoming aware of the fact that he had hoaxed a witcher who might not take kindly to getting hoaxed by bards, or humans at all. “I just.. you.. you looked so... despairing,” Jaskier mumbled. “I didn't mean to upset you or anything, it's just that-- Well, you also made fun of me, right? I just thought I was entitled to do the same,” he added lamely.

Geralt glowered at him even though he thought it was a good sign that Jaskier dared to tease him; maybe he wasn't afraid of Geralt any more.

“And what can you really remember?”

“Studying in Oxenfurt,” Jaskier replied, his eyes staring into the distance. “It's summer, and Waldo has just.... “ he trailed off. “The last thing I remember is me and some fellow students heading home together for midsummer. I can't remember reaching Lettenhove, though.”

“Well, that's a couple of years you've lost memory-wise then, and definitely everything since we met,” Geralt replied and mounted. “I would offer you a ride, but I'm sure you'd rather decline. I can either follow you or ride ahead, as long as you promise to keep up with me. It's your decision.”

Jaskier hesitated. “I guess it's okay if I follow you,” he finally said.

Geralt clicked his tongue and Roach started moving. He suppressed his urge to turn and check whether Jaskier was following. As long as he could still feel the bard's presence and smell his scent, he trusted it would be okay to ride ahead.

He was surprised when not long after he had got going, he heard Jaskier strum his lute and start singing. Realising that the bard was directly behind him and seemed to be comfortable enough in close vicinity to the witcher that he would, for the first time since he had lost his memory, sing again, Geralt suppressed a smile.

The song Jaskier sung was nothing Geralt had ever heard before. It was neither a song about Geralt's deeds as monster hunter nor another song about mystical creatures like the ones Jaskier had sung when they had first met.

It was a song about unrequited love, and the longer Jaskier sung, the more it tugged at Geralt's heartstrings.

*******

They reached a mutual understanding that allowed Geralt to keep an eye on Jaskier without intimidating him, and for Jaskier to feel safe without being in discomfort and free to go whenever he liked. When darkness fell, they camped outside a village and Jaskier was still there when Geralt woke from a light nap at dawn. 

They made good progress the next day, crossing the border to Redania in the afternoon. As soon as they had crossed the border, snowfall set in, as if to remind them that they were going further north and travel would be harder with each day. Geralt knew, if he wanted to reach Kaer Morhen before it was impossible to cross the mountains, he would have to part ways with Jaskier the next day at the latest. He could travel with him a little bit further east as far as Piana but if he didn't turn around then, the pass would be closed to him and he wouldn't be able to reach the witcher stronghold before springtime.

Deep inside, Geralt already knew that the chances of Jaskier regaining all his memories until the next day were close to nil and that he would not see his witcher brothers this year. Despite Jaskier being a grown man and capable of travelling alone even without remembering the last eight years of his life, Geralt would not allow it. What he had learned since he had befriended the travelling troubadour was that Jaskier had not known much of the continent and its lurking dangers. He had had fools’ luck getting this far without running into serious trouble. For the likes of Geralt, Jaskier talked too much, was too trusting, too plain-spoken in his choice of wording and singing, and he tended to lack any sense of danger. If Geralt was not there to stop men, or women, from taking offence at or advantage of the situation, he didn't know how long the bard would last.

For himself, he had already decided. For Jaskier, and against Kaer Morhen, though it didn't stop him from hoping that on the morrow things would look different.

When the snowfall increased, he pulled out his extra blanket and wordlessly handed it to Jaskier. After hesitating for a split second, the bard took it and wrapped himself in it. A cold breeze from the north had come along with the snow and Geralt decided it wouldn't make much sense to travel any further that day. They had come through two small villages and Geralt knew that a couple more hamlets lay ahead on their way to Piana.

He was mentally going through the contents of his saddlebags to see if he could find _anything_ they could sell or trade for a roof over their heads for the night, and a warm meal, when things started getting out of hand.

While Geralt had pondered the situation, Jaskier had apparently fallen back further than Geralt had imagined. He looked back when he heard faint laughing, only to find Jaskier surrounded by men who were having fun pushing the bard around in their midst. With a sharp tug at the reins, he halted Roach and turned her.

Jaskier's polite voice carried over to Geralt, and even though he understood only fragments of what the bard was saying, his tone was clearly panicky and stressed. Geralt clicked his tongue and put Roach to a trot.

When he was near enough to realise that the men were not some rovers but looked like mercenaries, he heard Jaskier speak again, more distinct now so he could understand every word.

“Look, it's him I'm travelling with. I told you! He's my friend,” Jaskier added, imploringly looking at the approaching Witcher.

Geralt grasped the seriousness of the situation immediately when he saw the minimal changes in the men's postures, the way the whole atmosphere tensed. Slowly, he reached for the sword strapped to his back. However, before he had even started unsheathing it, one of the mercenaries grabbed Jaskier, put him in front of himself and held a knife to his throat.

“Easy, stranger. If this weakling is telling the truth and you're friends with him, I'd leave that sword in the scabbard. Otherwise he'll be dead before you can even blink.” The man who held Jaskier looked challengingly at the Witcher. His fellow soldiers chuckled.

Geralt let go of the pommel. “What do you want from him? He's just a bard, and we're both broke. If you're up to rob us I must disappoint you. Besides dirty laundry and his shabby lute we have nothing to offer.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” the man nearest to Geralt said, stepping up to the Witcher and his horse. “This seems to be a fine riding horse, and the silver sword on your back doesn't look shabby either.” Patting Roach's nostrils, the man let his gaze wander assessingly. “The saddlebags seem pretty stuffed for someone who's broke, too.”

Geralt tensed, already working out a plan how to get rid of the mercenaries if he gave in to their demands and left Roach to them, at least seemingly. He was sure Roach would later find her way back to him. His sword, however, was something else entirely.

The man made an unmistakable gesture and Geralt obeyed and dismounted, glowering at his opponent. “I doubt you'll have much fun with her, she can be a nasty beast if she wants, but here you go! And don't forget the lute,” Geralt grumbled, stepping past the man and nearer to where Jaskier stood. “Now let him go.”

“I don't think so,” the man holding Jaskier said while two of his companions stepped into Geralt's way, forcing him to stop.

“You two might not have much of worth with you, but I bet his father will pay a fortune to get his precious son back. Unharmed,” the man added with a nasty grin, showing off his yellow teeth.

Geralt growled and glowered at Jaskier. Had the bard really introduced himself to these scumbags as Viscount de Lettenhove? Geralt felt an urge to pinch his nose. He breathed in and out heavily. “No, he will not. He is dead,” Geralt grunted, cringing inwardly because her really didn't know if this lie helped or worsened their situation. If they thought there was no money to be milked from Jaskier's family, they might decide to kill them instantly instead of letting them go. This, however, would be a situation Geralt was more comfortable with than negotiating ransom. He could fight, and even though they looked like a battle-hardened, unscrupulous bunch of mercenaries, he could easily cope with them. A burst of Igni and some well-aimed punches to windpipes would render them harmless in no time. For this, however, Jaskier needed to get rid of the knife to his throat first.

“What?” Jaskier gasped, staring wide-eyed at Geralt. “My father is dead?”

_Shit!_

Geralt reaslised that Jaskier might not comprehend his plan and be a tiny bit shocked by the news of his father's alleged passing in the years he had mentally lost. Well, it couldn't be helped, the cat was out of the bag and Geralt would have to explain it to the bard later that it was meant as a ruse and that his father was, to Geralt's knowledge, still hale and hearty. It would most likely dampen his efforts to gain the bard's trust, though.

Trying to ignore the bard's heartbroken puppy eyes he stared at the man who seemed to be the leader of their merry band.

“Well, I guess then he'll have to pay his ransom by himself, I'm sure he inherited money along with the title. What are you anyway, his bodyguard?” the leader of the man added, looking Geralt up and down appraisingly.

_Don't say it, don't say it_ , Geralt's inner voice chanted, imploring Jaskier with a withering look to keep his mouth shut. “Yes, kind of,” he grunted. The last thing he needed now was for these men to realise they were dealing with a witcher.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” one of he mercenaries said, pointing at Geralt. “Look at his funny hair and unnatural eyes. He looks like a mutant or some strange freak of nature. Maybe he's an elf. Would you hire such a monstrosity as bodyguard for your aristocratic son?”

“Doesn't mean he's not strong and quick with a sword.”

“And he could easily scare off uninvited guests with just his looks,” another one guffawed.

“Hey now,” Jaskier said.

“Keep quiet,” Geralt hissed. “What now?” he added, louder, addressing the man who held the knife at Jaskier's throat. The pressure of the knife pressed against the delicate skin had already drawn blood. The knife was way too close to the bard's windpipe and carotid artery for Geralt’s liking. “Take the horse and leave us alone. There will be no ransom to gain.”

“We'll see,” the man replied, quickly nodding to one of his comrades.

Geralt turned his head to see what kind of order the leader had given, but he was not fast enough. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow and ducked sideways. A second later something solid hit his shoulder, a blow that had most certainly been aimed at his head. Pain exploded in his shoulder and his knees buckled but he managed to stay on his feet. With one smooth motion he unsheathed his knife, turned, and slashed open his attacker’s upper arm from shoulder to elbow, causing the man to drop the club and cry out in pain.

“Leave it,” Geralt panted, turning to Jaskier and the man who held him hostage, pointing with the tip of his dagger. “Just let us go, you won't get any ransom for us from anyone, but it'll spare you and your men injuries and pain.”

The man laughed, throaty and loud, and Geralt could just see how the noise added to Jaskier's discomfort. “You don't say! I'm already quaking in my boots!” As abruptly as he had started, the man stopped laughing. “I just need to drag this knife back and your friend will bleed to death while you watch. And then it's six against one, and you will follow him within a minute. If I'd be you, I would start thinking again whether you know of someone who is willing to pay ransom for either of you.”

Behind him, Geralt heard the unsheathing of knives or daggers, but he kept his eyes fixed on Jaskier. It was probably best to admit defeat for now. There would be time to kill them all later. Suddenly, a sharp pain flashed through him when a dagger embedded itself in his right side, slicing through muscle and flesh just beneath the shoulder blade. 

He dropped his dagger, stumbling from the force of the stab. Before he could decide whether or not it had been a mistake to concede defeat, he was hit on the head and darkness swallowed him.


	3. Chapter 3

The dull pain in his side woke Geralt and while climbing up from the depth of slumber, for a moment he wondered if he had spent the night lying on a sharp rock or if Roach had kicked him in the side accidentally. The low murmur of voices brought him back to reality, as did the knowledge that his hands and feet were tied and he was not lying but sitting upright, tilting onto something soft at his left side.

He opened his eyes. The soft thing he was leaning on was Jaskier, and the bard started speaking in a low voice as soon as he realised Geralt was awake.

“Thank goodness you're awake! Are you okay? I thought you might never open your eyes again and I really don't know what I would have done if...”

Geralt scanned the area and got a quick overview of the situation. Then he looked Jaskier up and down. “Are you hurt?” he asked, interrupting the bard's babbling.

“What? No. I'm okay, they didn't hurt me. But you are still bleeding, and when they knocked you unconscious there was a horrible cracking sound and I thought they'd split your head and they didn't let me bandage your wound even though I asked them.”

“Shh,” Geralt hissed quickly when Jaskier stopped his stream of words to catch his breath. “Don't worry about me, just tell me what has happened. Are they still planning to demand ransom?”

To Geralt’s relief, Roach was tied up nearby and it seemed that they had left everything where it was; saddlebags, lute, scabbard, everything was tied to the saddle. His silver sword and dagger had been thrown carelessly to the ground between his horse and where they sat, together with the blanket Jaskier had worn. His eyes returned to the bard and he felt, before he saw it, how Jaskier was shivering in the cold. 

“I don't know, I couldn't understand much of what they are talking about. But since we are both alive, I guess that yes, they might still try to get ransom for me. Us,” he added quickly, glancing at the Witcher.

“Hmm.”

“Is this good or bad? You're doing this a lot, you know, and I'm really not good at reading your grunting,” Jaskier replied mockingly. “I doubt, however, anyone will be able to scrape enough money together for ransom. Even if my father--” Jaskier broke off.

“I'm sorry I said that,” Geralt murmured, cautiously keeping his voice low. “Your father is not dead, as far as I know he's still alive and kicking. I just said that in the hope they would let us go. It wasn't such a good idea to introduce yourself as Viscount.”

Jaskier's head whipped around. With wide eyes he stared at the Witcher. “He's not dead?”

Geralt could see unshed tears shimmering in the bard's eyes, and the sight did something odd to his guts.

“I'm sorry for the lie, I had forgotten you might not remember whether it's true or not. But now we need to make a plan. I bet these are mercenaries on their way south. I told you there's rumours of Nilfgaard concentrating their troops. I doubt they'll burden themselves with us for long. If they don't see any kind of advantage in us, they'll just kill us.”

As if on cue, one of the mercenaries gathered around a fire some distance away, got up. Pointing to their captives he bellowed: “Let's get rid of them now, they will just be a millstone around our necks if we take them with us.” He took a step away from the fire towards their prisoners. “We won't get a ransom for them.”

Geralt changed his position, tensing his muscles and blocking out the pain in his side and shoulder.

Another one rose, gazing over to Geralt and Jaskier. “We should keep one, the weakling, he'll be easy to handle and he's the one who’s inherited money.”

“His clothes look threadbare. If his father is dead and his family impoverished, there will be no money to be had from him. I say we take the horse and weapons and kill them both.” The man, a burly bloke with a thick beard, didn't get up but drew his dagger to emphasise his words.

“Forget the skinny troubadour,” a tall, utterly hideous man grumbled. “I doubt he'll bring us any money. I'd be ashamed if I had a son like him, his family is probably happy to get rid of him. But that one, he's the one worth giving thought to.” He grabbed the shoulder of the man who had spoken first and pointed at Geralt. “Look at him, he's no ordinary bodyguard. I bet he's a mage or witcher. He might be useful to us. I've heard of a spell to bring these mutants to heel. We kill the boy and keep the mutant.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, sounding panicky.

“Easy,” Geralt murmured. “I won't let them hurt you.” Despite feeling sorry for Jaskier fearing for his life, the way he was now turning to Geralt with utter confidence that the Witcher would help him, was balm for his soul.

A discussion erupted between the mercenaries until finally the leader shouted, “Enough! You're worse than a bunch of bickering fishmongers! We'll take a vote. Who wants to get rid of them both here and now?” He raised his hand, looking at the others. Two of them also raised their arms.

“Who’s for going to Lettenhove county and getting a nice ransom? It's on our way anyway,” one of those who had not voted for killing the captives asked, raising his hand. He was joined by the one who had suggested keeping the 'weakling'.

They all turned to the tall, hideous man with the scar across his face who had not yet taken a stand.

“What say you?” the leader barked.

After a long moment, the man finally raised his hand, too. “I'm sure we can get some money for the boy; we could still sell him to a slave trader. And the witcher will make us a fortune, I know someone in Nilfgaard who will pay for him.”

“If he's a witcher, do you really think you'll be able to handle him? He will use black magic and cast a spell or call some monsters to his aid. It's him we should kill first,” said one of the men who had voted for killing both.

“Right, and if he's a witcher, why is he still lying manacled and immobilised instead of doing his witcher magic? He's not worth a penny,” another joined in.

“That's enough!” shouted the leader. “If you can't agree on a decision, we will...,” he trailed off, looking around. Eventually he bent down to pick up a pouch. “Toss a coin!” he proclaimed satisfied.

Jaskier, who had followed the discussion with bated breath turned his head and stared at Geralt.

Something in the bard's mien startled Geralt. “Jaskier, you're okay?”

Ever so slightly, Jaskier's expression changed again, he was looking at Geralt as if he'd seen him for the first time. Geralt really started worrying. “What's wrong?”

Before the bard could answer, a cheer and shouting erupted from the crowd of soldiers, catching Geralt's attention. One look at the men told him which side had won. He did not have much time left.

“Do you trust me?” he asked Jaskier with an urgent undertone to stress the meaning of his words.

The bard stared at Geralt, still having a strange look on his face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt urged. “Do you trust me?”

The discussion about how fair or unfair it was to let a coin decide the fate of riches or not was coming to an end. The party that had lost sat down grumpily by the fire with the leader of the mercenaries. Two men approached Geralt and Jaskier.

“Yes,” Jaskier finally answered. “Yes, I guess I trust you.”

“Then follow along and fight back as hard as you can. Just, whatever I say next, take it with a pinch of salt, okay?” Geralt didn't wait for an answer but turned his face to the approaching men.

“Time is up,” the burly soldier with the thick beard chuckled, grinning madly.

“Kill him first,” Geralt said unemotionally. “I’ve had to listen to his wailing and arrogant ramblings for years. If I have to die for doing my job as bodyguard to this spoiled brat, at least show some mercy and allow me to see him being slaughtered.”

Beside him, he heard Jaskier gasp, and Geralt wasn't sure if the bard was playing along or was genuinely shocked by the Witcher's words.

The two soldiers stopped, apparently surprised by Geralt's demand. Insecurely, they looked at each other. Finally, the one with the bald head and tattoos all over his bare arms shrugged his shoulders. “Fine with me,” he slurred. “Let's grant him some kind of last meal, if he’s suffered so much from the brat.” He grabbed Jaskier's arm and hauled him up.

Geralt seized the moment to change his position and get on his knees.

Jaskier started screaming, wriggling vehemently to get away from the man. “No! Leave me! I can pay! My family is rich! Geralt!”

The burly man barked a laugh when Jaskier managed to hit his companion's chin with his head while violently thrashing around, eliciting a curse from the soldier. He grabbed for the bard's shoulder.

Geralt pushed himself off the ground with as much strength as possible and leaped to the side. He had calculated right and crashed down where the mercenaries had so thoughtlessly dropped his sword and dagger. With a quick half-turn he had his bound wrists positioned at his sword and dragged the rope along the sharpened blade. It cut through the rope like a knife through butter, and, unfortunately, through leather and skin as well, but he was free a second later and that was the main point. In one motion he grabbed the sword with his left hand, the dagger with his right, cutting loose his feet in the process. He was on his feet and battle-ready before the two soldiers struggling with Jaskier had realised what was happening.

He threw the dagger, the blade driving into the man's throat with a hissing sound.

The soldier grabbed at his throat, fear in his eyes as his knees buckled. He toppled to the side, gurgling. His companion had dropped Jaskier the moment he realised something was wrong with his comrade, frantically reaching for his dagger.

Geralt was by the soldier's side before the man had unsheathed his dagger, ramming his sword up through the man's ribcage to pierce the heart. The man was dead before he dropped to the ground.

With a sucking sound, Geralt yanked the sword free, turning around to the four men left by the fire, his right arm outstretched. Using Aard, he cast a powerful blast at the mercenaries, throwing them back a couple of feet and rendering them immobile for a moment.

He grabbed the short sword the burly man had dropped in his death throes and quickly ran to where the mercenaries were gasping and trying to get up. He sent his sword hurtling through the air, sinking it deep into the chest of the first soldier he came across. To his side, the leader of the group was advancing, dagger in hand. Geralt turned and dragged the short sword across the man's throat. Blood immediately gushed from the gaping wound.

Two of the soldiers were now on their feet but hesitated to attack. Slowly, Geralt turned to confront them, grinning sardonically at them. “Now your time's up,” he said, raising both swords.

With a battle-cry, both mercenaries launched themselves on Geralt, swords outstretched in front of them. Geralt ducked underneath their raised arms, sliding his swords along their legs. With a cry of pain, both soldiers stumbled. Geralt came up, kicking one of the men sideways on the knee, causing him to fall down. Simultaneously he swung his sword in a semi-circle, nearly beheading the man to his right from the force with which his sword cut through the neck. He finished the last soldier by ramming the short sword through his heart, pinning him to the frozen ground. With a sigh, life left the man's body.

Panting only slightly, Geralt came up and let his eye wander over the camp, making sure that none of his opponents were about to get up again. He wasn't sure if he had killed everyone properly. When he was convinced that none of them were a threat to either of them any more, he walked over to Jaskier who was staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asked when he reached the bard.

Jaskier gaped at him with an expression that warmed the Witcher's heart. There had been few occasions that he had seen someone look at him with such a display of admiration and awe.

“That was... awesome!” Jaskier cried. “That's just-- I can't believe my eyes! You needed... what? Less than thirty seconds to kill them all?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, dragging this dagger from the dead soldier's throat to cut the ropes around Jaskier's feet and hands.

Jaskier looked down at the two men at their feet who had wanted to kill them just a moment ago. “They are dead, aren't they?” 

Something in Jaskier's voice irritated Geralt.

“I warned them that if they wouldn't let us go it would end badly for them. I'm really not fond of killing, no matter what people say about me, but they wanted to kill you. There was no other option.”

“They also wanted to kill you, not just me,” Jaskier replied quietly.

“Right. But there have been many people who have wanted to see me dead. You looked a bit afraid. Couldn't let that happen.”

“Oh,” Jaskier gasped suddenly, grabbing Geralt's hands. “You're bleeding! You're hurt!”

“It's nothing,” Geralt replied, withdrawing his hands from Jaskier's grasp. “It's just a cut. Let's take Roach and leave. We should try to find shelter in a village, you're shivering and it will get even colder tonight.”

“You're also still bleeding from that wound there,” Jaskier remarked quietly, pointing at Geralt's chest.

“I will take a look at it later, it's nothing serious.” Sheathing his sword and dagger, he made a mental note to clean them properly later. He bent to grab an arm of each dead mercenary and started dragging them over to the fire.

“What are you doing? Are you going to bury them?”

“No,” Geralt answered through gritted teeth. The soldiers' weight tugged at the wound in his back and his injured shoulder. “We don't have time to bury them, and the soil is rock-hard anyway. There's not even enough stones or deadwood around to cover them, we'll have to just leave them here.” He dropped the men beside their comrades and bent down to grab the pouch of coins the leader had displayed earlier when picking a coin to make a decision. It lay heavy in Geralt's hand and he guessed it would be enough to buy them a warm meal and a roof over their heads each night until they reached Oxenfurt.

“Come!” he called, walking over to Roach. He stowed the pouch in his jacket and picked up the blanket. It was cold and wet from the snow and Geralt lashed it down to the saddle. Instead, he handed Jaskier his cloak which had been left hanging from Roach's back after the mercenaries stripped the garment from him before before they had tied him up.

Jaskier stared at him, seemingly not knowing what to do with the offered cloak. Geralt sighed and put it around the bard's shoulders. “You'll freeze to death in your high fashion bard outfit and the blanket is damp.”

Geralt quickly rummaged through his saddlebags to see what had been removed from them and re-adjusted his sword holder. Clicking his tongue, he urged Roach to start moving, leading her by the reins. Even though his side and shoulder hurt, constantly sending waves of dull pain through his body, he didn't want to mount and leave Jaskier walking.

“Listen,” Geralt said, when Jaskier caught up with him a moment later. “I know you're somehow stuck in the time when you were at Oxenfurt University, but you can't run around telling everyone you're Viscount de Lettenhove. Introduce yourself as Jaskier, a travelling bard, that way no one will bother. But as a Viscount, you practically wear a price tag around your neck for people like them.” Geralt nodded back to the scene of battle they had just left. “There are enough cutthroats roaming the streets even without mercenaries heading south now.”

“All right,” Jaskier replied ruefully. “I'll bear it in mind, but how should I know the right or wrong thing to do when I can't remember so many things? What else do I need to heed?”

“Nothing,” Geralt grunted, quickly glancing at the bard walking beside him. “As long as I travel with you and you stay close, you'll have nothing to fear. I'll look after you.”

“Mhm.”

Geralt perked a brow. Only on rare occasions had Jaskier replied with nothing more than a grunt. Usually the bard's need to express himself could hardly be quelled.

However, it didn't take long before Jaskier spoke again.

“You know, what you did back there... the fighting and how you tricked them and cut your ropes in the blink of an eye. That was unbelievable! I've never seen anyone fight like that before. And the thing you did with your hand, that was magic, right? Someone really should sing a song about that. It's-- I mean, the way you immobilised them was just... incredible! Your skills are, I don't know... Anyway, this would make for a great song about heroics and, and... er, well. Someone really should compose a song about it.”

Geralt laughed out loud, looking fondly at Jaskier. “You're such a droll fellow.”

“Droll? _Droll!_ You call me a droll fellow?” Jaskier mocked, jerking to a halt, glaring at Geralt angrily. “How does a witcher even know the word droll and when to use it?”

Geralt grunted and walked on, relying on Jaskier to follow him. When he realised that the bard apparently wasn’t planning to move on but kept staring at him with a sulky expression, Geralt sighed. “You. You sang about these things.”

“Did I? Really? But I don't know any songs about battle and fighting,” Jaskier said, furrowing his brows.

“It's the main reason I guess why you started travelling with me. You wanted to get firsthand information about stuff for your songs and change the way people look at witchers. To put the way people look at us in perspective. Your words, not mine,” Geralt added. Hoping that Jaskier was satisfied and would now carry on, he started walking again.

Shortly after, Jaskier caught up with Geralt.

“You know, what they said earlier, tossing a coin to decide our fate. It reminded me of something. Somehow it sounded... familiar. Do you know why?”

Geralt looked up surprised. “You remember something?”

“No, it was just the words that sounded familiar. And... and the way you asked if I was okay.”

“It's in one of your songs. One of the songs you composed since travelling with me. Toss a coin. It's fairly well known by now.”

“Really? Can you sing it for me? Maybe I'll remember something!”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Definitely no, I won't remember?”

“No! I won't sing.”

“But... but it would help me to remember! Maybe something will resurface.”

Geralt grunted. As much as he hoped Jaskier would regain his memory, there was only so much he could take. Singing was definitely not an option.

“What is it about? A love song? Unrequited love? Undying love?”

Geralt grounded to a halt. “What? No! It's a song about.... me.”

Now it was Jaskier who cast a strange look at Geralt. “Oh,” he finally breathed.

The expression on Jaskier's face did something funny to Geralt's guts again. “It's not-- It's _not_...! Grmpf,” he grumbled. “It's about slaying monsters. Blood and gore,” he finally said with determination, avoiding the bard's gaze.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathed, looking puzzled. “Mmm. That's... interesting.” His face lit up. “Well, I think it makes sense! I mean that it's about monsters and slaying and, err, you know, not a love song. Obviously not a love song!” Jaskier chuckled nervously. “I mean it would be a bit odd if I, uh, that is....” He trailed off.

Geralt grunted.

“I guess it makes sense that I am the one who composed a song about your... butchering business, deeds, whatever. I mean, after all you said, that's apparently the reason you and I are travelling together. And not... err, not--” Jaskier stuttered, wildly gesturing with his hands though it was hard to make out what exactly he wanted to point out.

Geralt growled. “Enough of it! We should keep going and find a shelter for the night. It's freezing and you're shivering like a maiden on her wedding night.” He turned and strode off. The conversation was about to take a turn he didn't particularly like. 

They silently trudged along for a while until Jaskier caught up again with Geralt.

“Wait!” he panted, holding his side to catch his breath. “I've thought about all this.”

Geralt halted and turned. Lifting an eyebrow, he looked at Jaskier.

“I think you should turn around and make your way to Kaer Morhen. The weather is getting even worse and I'm only holding you up and you need to get your wounds treated and it would not be fair if you'd miss the chance to reach your winter quarter only because of me.”

“It'll be at least a week before I reach Kaer Morhen, the wounds will have healed by then.”

“Maybe, maybe not. And even if they do heal that quickly, you said you need your stay there over winter to recuperate. To take a rest and stock up your herbs and potions, and to see your witcher family. It wouldn't be fair if you miss all that because of me.”

Geralt looked Jaskier up and down. “If you want to get rid of me, you’ll have to come up with something better. I will see you safely to Oxenfurt. End of discussion.” He turned and walked on.

“Wait!” Jaskier grabbed Geralt's arm, forcing him to stop and turn around again. “I really appreciate what you've done for me. You saved my life back there. Without you, they would have killed me. Or sold me.”

Jaskier shivered violently, and Geralt wondered whether it was from the cold or from the image of what could have happened to Jaskier if he'd been sold as slave.

“In fact, I have to admit that everything you’ve done since that unfortunate incident in the tavern, was for me, without regard for your own wellbeing. You even got wounded because of me. Not once did you try to force anything onto me. Well, apart from the incident with the horse, but I'm willing to condone it, in the context of the big picture. Anyway. You asked me if I trusted you and I said yes. Admittedly, I wasn't so convinced a second later when you said you wanted to see me slaughtered, but that's not the point.”

“Jaskier, it's cold and your teeth are chattering like a pair of castanets and I have no clue what you're trying to say. Get to the point!”

“The point is that I think it's best if I accompany you to Kaer Morhen, if I can't talk you out of travelling to Oxenfurt with me. I can’t remember what I've done over winter in Oxenfurt. How can we even be sure I would have a place to stay there? What if I'm not welcome there?”

“Why shouldn't you be? As far as I know, you've travelled back to Oxenfurt over winter a couple of times in the last few years. Unless you’ve lied to me and didn't go to Oxenfurt, I see no reason why there should be a problem with it.”

Jaskier stayed silent, but the look on his face prompted Geralt to follow up on it. “Did you? Lie to me?”

“How should I know when I can't remember anything from the time I've supposedly spent travelling with you?” Jaskier snapped.

“Well, maybe there's a reason why you think you might not be welcomed in Oxenfurt,” Geralt replied calmly. “Or is it because of something you remember from the time when you studied there?” Maybe something Jaskier had never mentioned but was reason enough to avoid Oxenfurt now, Geralt thought. Maybe even something in relation to his fear of witchers...

“I'm just saying. If I can't remember anything, I can't remember anything in relation to me staying in Oxenfurt over winter, either. So, instead of travelling further west we should turn around. If your offer still holds, I'll come with you to Kaer Morhen, where you can see to your wounds. Who knows, maybe some of your fellow witchers know of potions or herbs to bring back my memory.”

For now, Geralt ignored the subtle undertone of irritation in Jaskier's voice. He would ponder this later.

“Does this mean you're no longer afraid of me?” he asked.

The hope Geralt had put into this question was quenched when he saw the look on Jaskier's face. Trusting witchers, or specifically Geralt, apparently wasn't the main motive for Jaskier's decision. He should have known. He could still catch the scent in the frosty air.

“Erm, didn't I just say I trust you?” Jaskier replied tetchily.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Chances are high you'll be stuck with us for a while, we will be snowed up at least until a couple of weeks into the new year.” Geralt had no idea what had caused the shift in the bard's opinion, but he speculated it had nothing to do with a newfound trust in Geralt or Jaskier suddenly shaking off his witcherphobia.

“Wasn't it you who kept saying I should go with you to Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt sighed. He couldn't argue with that because he _had_ asked Jaskier more than once to go with him to the witcher stronghold, mainly because he worried what might happen to the bard if he was without someone who knew him and looked after him. He was also worried Jaskier's condition might become permanent. He had high hopes that Vesemir would know how to handle and cure the temporary loss of memory, or at least know someone who could.

“All right. If that's what you want, let's head for Kaedwen.” Geralt clucked his tongue, prompting Roach to start moving again. Ploughing through ankle-deep snow and constantly listening for Jaskier's wheeze to make sure the bard kept up with him, Geralt pondered Jaskier's shift of opinion.

While some minuscule progress in their relationship couldn't be denied, it was apparent that the bard's decision to follow Geralt to Kaer Morhen had less to do with a newfound trust in Geralt, but probably more with something in Jaskier's past. Something that worried him enough to shy away from going to Oxenfurt but rather put his head in the lion's mouth, so to speak.

And that, in turn, made Geralt wonder if everything Jaskier had ever revealed of his life, his time in Oxenfurt, his travels over the continent, his upbringing as Viscount de Lettenhove, his amorous escapades, even his reasons for travelling with Geralt, had any grain of truth in them at all, or if everything had been a lie. 

The dull pain in his shoulder and smarting throbbing in his side was joined by a cold ache in his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

They found shelter in a small hamlet. 

Geralt paid for a meal and a room for the night in a shabby tavern with the money he had taken from the mercenaries. The fire in the taproom was stoked up so their clothes were already dry when they retired for the night. Geralt bandaged his stab wound and then ceded the room and the single bed to Jaskier and declared he would spend the night in the stable beside Roach. Jaskier protested, for decency's sake Geralt guessed, and Geralt insisted he wouldn't mind and claimed that he was concerned Roach had started to go lame and he wanted to make sure she was okay.

The look of relief Geralt could see flashing in Jaskier's eyes when they parted was understandable, but nonetheless, it hurt.

The next morning, they set out north-eastwards and made good progress. Whenever there was the chance to find a village or hamlet at the end of the day, they would repeat the procedure of paying for a meal and a bed in an inn, and Geralt would retire to the stable and grant Jaskier some space. Even though they found a comfortable routine in travelling together, Geralt could still sense Jaskier’s discomfort and insecurity in close proximity to the him, and he thought it would not change until the bard regained his memory. Whenever that might happen – if at all.

The closer they got to Kaer Morhen, the harder it was to find an inn where they could stay at the end of the day and when that happened, they camped outside, huddled near a fire, living on the meat and bread Geralt had purchased and they were up on the road again before sunrise, stiff from the night.

At least, after a couple of days of hard marching, Jaskier had reluctantly agreed to join the Witcher on Roach's back, sitting behind Geralt, and this granted them a faster pace and Geralt hoped to reach the witcher stronghold even earlier than anticipated. Most of the time they rode or marched in silence. Jaskier seemed to shirk from talking about his past, forcing Geralt to conclude that there must have been some incident the bard had never shared, for whatever reason.

Geralt, who had a natural aversion to talking at all, only gave some sparse summaries of events when Jaskier insisted on learning more about their time together. He never had the impression though that Jaskier recalled anything he was told nor did it significantly help to reduce the bard's still strong fear of witchers in general or alter his view in that regard. The weather made it nearly impossible for Jaskier to play his lute, hence there was no noteworthy entertainment from that side either.

A little more than a day's march away from Kaer Morhen, Jaskier finally dropped the other shoe Geralt had been waiting for. They had just finished a meagre breakfast and rolled up their bedrolls when Jaskier started stuttering, fidgeting with some threads of the blanket.

“Ah, erm, you know, I did some thinking tonight and I'm not sure any more if it's really such a good idea to accompany you to Kaer Morhen. I mean, it's a stronghold. A witcher stronghold. Full of witchers. And I'm not. A witcher I mean, definitely not a witcher. I don't think I would fit well into this group of, you know, witchers.”

“Jaskier, you're babbling.”

“Don't get me wrong, I don't want to offend you, but... even though it seems you're a really decent man, erm, witcher, from what you said there's still a lot of witchers up there. Witchers I don't know. Who are... you know, unpredictable. Mean, maybe. Dangerous. And you might--”

“They are not.” Geralt interrupted Jaskier's stream of words. “You don't know them. They can be gruff and unfriendly and rough sometimes, but we're not the monsters people think we are. You don't have to fear them. I'll not let anyone do you harm.”

“It's just that, you know, they don't know me, I don't know them. I just don't feel comfortable inflicting my company on them. Who knows, they might not take kindly to you bringing company. It's better if we part ways here.”

“Certainly not!” Geralt growled, tying down his bedroll to the saddle. He felt anger rise due to this unnecessary conversation and trampled out the fire vehemently. “Look around you, it's four days since we came through the last settlement. Where do you want to go?”

“I will go back where we came from, I'm sure I can--”

“No! You can't! We've had this discussion and I asked whether you were sure. I'd have travelled with you to Oxenfurt, but you said you'd come with me. You can't back away now.”

“Look, I really appreciate everything you did and even if I can't remember anything of the things you told me, I believe you that we were friends. I can see that--”

A burst of anger flared up in Geralt's guts. Not 'we _are_ friends' but 'we _were_ friends' was all it needed to finally tip the scales in Geralt's basically non-existent patience that had already been worn thin over the last couple of days. He had gone out of his way and virtually parted with his usual behaviour, only to show the bard that there was no reason to be afraid of witchers. Oh, he should have known never to trust humans!

Thinking of it, Jaskier had probably only agreed to travel to Kaer Morhen to avoid Oxenfurt, because that had been a lie right from the start. Presumably the bard had never spent one wintertime there but had made Geralt believe it for whatever reasons.

“Fine, go! I'm not keeping you,” he barked. “I'm far better off without you anyway.” He turned away from Jaskier, busying himself with the saddle girth which was already tightened up and didn't need more tightening at all.

“Look, Geralt, I didn't mean--” Jaskier started.

“Go ahead! Clear off, I don't need you here!” Geralt shouted, glowering at the bard. ”See if I care.”

Jaskier flinched, and immediately Geralt could see fear flickering in the bard's eyes. And he almost didn't care about it.

Jaskier turned and virtually fled the encampment.

Geralt busied himself with packing the rest of his – and Jaskier's – belongings, well aware of the fact that Jaskier had left behind his lute and all his other belongings in his haste to get away from Geralt. He didn't bother shouting after the bard to remind him to take his things with him. He knew he would meet with Jaskier later and take him safely back to Oxenfurt, or wherever Jaskier wanted to go, but just not now. Now he needed time away from his travel companion.

He mounted and turned Roach around, clicking his tongue and digging his heels into her flanks. And then he froze.

“Jaskier, no!” he shouted, leaping from Roach. “Stop!”

Jaskier trudged on, his anger clearly discernible by the way he was stomping his feet with each step. Geralt called again, cold fear gripping his heart. ”Stop, don't go any further!”

Apparently, something in the Witcher's voice must have broken through the bard's anger, for Jaskier stopped and turned around.

Geralt made towards Jaskier, his eyes fixed on the bard.

An ugly cracking resounded from where Jaskier was standing. The bard looked down to his feet, then up again to the approaching Witcher. “What was that?”

Geralt reached the frozen lake that lay under a thick layer of crisp snow, he could hear the ice crunch underneath his feet. “It's all right, just don't make quick movements.” Slowly, he pushed his other foot forward, his boot scratching over ice.

Again, Jaskier looked down to where his feet seemed frozen to the spot now. Slowly, he lifted his right foot and took a tiny step forward. When he shifted his body weight, more cracking was heard.

“Easy,” Geralt said, carefully sliding one foot after the other. Keeping his eyes on Jaskier, he reckoned the distance. The bard was still about fifty metres away from him. If the ice had already cracked under the bard's weight, Geralt's chances of reaching him were low. With his armour and sword, he weighed probably twice as much as Jaskier. The bard would have to come back on his own. “Get down on your knees and then lie down, but very slowly and carefully!” 

Jaskier, who had been in the process of taking another step, looked up, his left leg hovering mid-air. Obviously uncertain what to do, he hesitated before bringing the foot back down again. He started to crouch down but before he could even touch the ground with his hands, the ice cracked and Jaskier plunged into the water, immediately disappearing.

“Fuck!”

Geralt got down on his knees and stretched flat on the ice. Quickly but carefully he crawled ahead. He slowed down when he was near the hole in the ice where Jaskier had disappeared, inching forward. He groped about in the ice-cold water until his hands grabbed something. With both arms he hauled Jaskier up from underneath the surface.

Jaskier gasped for air, flailing with his arms.

“Easy,” Geralt panted through clenched teeth. “I’ve got you.” He readjusted his grip on the bard and started pulling him out of the water.

Jaskier stopped thrashing around, probably because his muscles were numb from the icy water. 

Their eyes locked. Geralt saw a flicker of something flitting in Jaskier's eyes. Recognition, maybe, or some kind of understanding.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered.

A loud crack resounded from underneath Geralt and a second later the ice yielded and broke and his arms and shoulders slipped into the water, and along with Jaskier. The bard's head went under again and Geralt ground his teeth to counter the sudden tug at his shoulders. He felt Jaskier's arms slowly slipping from his grasp, the wet leather of his gloves too slick to find a firm grip. Growling, he bit his teeth and changed his grip just when the bard was about to slip away. Grabbing the collar of Jaskier's jerkin with one hand, he pulled him up, using his left hand to support himself and shift his weight away from the unstable edge of the hole.

Slowly crawling backwards, he hauled Jaskier out of the water, dragging the motionless body with him over the ice until he reached the bank. Once on firm ground, he pulled Jaskier up and threw the limp body over his shoulder, hurrying back to their abandoned encampment. He took a moment to decide what to do first, then he grabbed his bedroll from Roach’s saddle and walked to the fireplace. Carefully, he put Jaskier on the ground beside the cold hearth. On the other side of the fire, he spread the bedroll. Pulling off his wet gloves, he knelt beside Jaskier and grabbed the bard's face with both hands.

“Damn it, Jaskier, open your eyes! Come on!” Lightly, Geralt slapped the bard’s face. His own hands were as cold as Jaskier's skin, but he could sense a steady, albeit weak heartbeat. A witchery upside if you didn't have to grope about for a pulse rate with numb fingers.

No longer waiting for a reaction from Jaskier, he started stripping him. It was important to get the bard warm and dry again, and therefore even the last bit of wet fabric needed to go, despite or precisely because of the frosty air and light snowfall around them. It wasn't an easy undertaking stripping a limp and unconscious man of wet clothes which had already started icing up, and Geralt decided to make short work of it and used his dagger to cut the undergarments away. Only briefly did his hand falter when the dagger neared the bard's crotch, and he determinedly kept his eyes fixed on the fabric he removed from the wet body.

Once completely stripped, he moved Jaskier to the bedroll, wrapping him up like a swaddled baby. Then he wrapped Jaskier's bedroll around the unconscious bard, too.

Sending a short prayer of thanks to Melitele for the spruce forest around them, Geralt unsheathed his sword and hacked off enough spruce branches to restart the fire and keep it going for a while. Spruce brushwood was pretty much the only wood he knew of that burned even when wet. With a burst of Igni he set the brushwood on fire and soon they had a nice campfire again. He made sure that Jaskier was far enough away from the flames not to burn but near enough to get the utmost heat, then he returned to Roach.

He unstrapped the nosebag from the saddle, unbridled Roach and hang the nosebag around her neck. It was the last portion of oats he had left for her, but he knew she wouldn't get another chance to feed on it. He didn't plan to stop again between here and Kaer Morhen. As soon as Jaskier had warmed up a bit, they would mount the horse and only stop again when they had reached the stronghold.

“Rally your strength, now you'll have to prove yourself,” Geralt murmured, patting her neck. Then he loosened the saddle girth and hung the bridle over the saddle. He refrained from tying Roach somewhere, she would not wander off. Instead, he removed his sword belt and tied it next to the bridle.

He returned to Jaskier who had neither moved nor showed signs of wakening. Geralt shed his wet leather jacket and threw it next to Jaskier's clothing to dry off. His shirt sleeves were soaked up to the shoulders but the rest of his torso had stayed fairly dry due to the thick leather of his armour. Geralt kneeled and brushed some strands of wet hair off the bard's forehead. “Come now, don't let me down,” he whispered. “Wake up! You can't give up now.”

After a while, the bard's face lost the bluish pale from before and shone rosy-tinted. Finally, he stirred, groaned and opened his eyes.

“I'm so cold,” Jaskier wheezed.

“I know. Soon you'll be warmer,” Geralt replied gently. He returned to his horse and rummaged through the saddlebags, grabbing Jaskier's already used spare undergarments and extra shirt as well as his own used, blood-stained shirt. Then he returned to the bard. Wrapping him out of the bedrolls and dressing was even harder than undressing him earlier, because now Jaskier was shivering uncontrollably and groaning whenever Geralt touched his skin. Geralt could only guess how every touch must feel on a skin that had gone numb and was only slowly warming up again.

“Th- Th- Thank you,” Jaskier stuttered through clattering teeth.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, grabbing for the clothes beside the fireplace.

Geralt dressed Jaskier in dry underwear, an extra shirt, his own extra shirt, partly dried trousers, the still wet boots, Geralt's cloak, and bedroll. Then he put on his jacket and gloves which had dried reasonably well in the meantime and stuffed everything else into the saddlebags. He strapped his sword to his back, took the now empty nose bag from Roach and bridled her, tightened up the saddle girth a bit tighter than usual and finally led her to the fireplace where Jaskier had already slipped in some kind of semi-consciousness again, light shivers shaking his body.

Geralt stamped the fire out, lifted Jaskier up and put him over his left shoulder. Firmly grabbing his saddle front and back, he hoisted himself up and slipped Jaskier from his shoulder as soon as he was mounted. It was a bit of a struggle to get Jaskier's unresponsive legs left and right of Roach's back without completely unwrapping the bundle he had made out of him, but finally Geralt made it. Once he and the bard were seated on Roach's back, he pressed Jaskier's torso firmly to his own, holding him pinned with his left arm. With his right, he gave Roach the bridle and spurred her on with his boots.

“To Kaer Morhen, and quickly,” he muttered and led Roach back onto the road.

*******

When night fell, Geralt felt that Roach was at the end of her tether, and he slowed their pace once again to let her walk for a while. That was the best he could offer her. They needed to reach the stronghold at any cost. Jaskier had started to develop a fever during the day and had been burning up and unresponsive since early afternoon. The heat emitting from the bard had kept Geralt warm, too, despite the heavy snowfall, but his hair and clothing were covered with a thin layer of ice and his left arm was stiff and aching from keeping Jaskier seated in front of him. The stab wound throbbed unpleasantly, and his lungs burned from the cold air. 

Judging from the position of the moon, it was well past midnight when Roach trotted up the path to the gates of the witcher keep. “Well done,” he muttered, letting go of the reins and patting the neck of his mare.

He steered Roach alongside the great gate so he could pound against the heavy wooden planks. Even though it was in the middle of the night and the great courtyard lay between the gate and the main buildings, he knew his arrival would not go unnoticed.

It wasn't before long until he heard footfall on the other side and after a short, grunted exchange of identifying remarks, the gate opened.

“You're late,” Eskel greeted him, stepping sideways to let Roach pass, and shut the heavy door as soon as Geralt entered the courtyard

“What are you bringing?” Eskel asked warily. “Smells like a human.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, steering Roach towards the stables.

The knowing smirk on Eskel's face was something Geralt decided to ignore for now, in any other situation it would have earned his brother at least a bloody nose.

“What happened?” Eskel asked and followed, making no move to help Geralt though.

“He developed a high fever after he fell into a frozen lake and he lost his memory,” Geralt replied, slipping from the horse while keeping Jaskier in place. When he had dismounted, he pulled Jaskier down as well.

“He lost his memory from the fall into icy water?”

“No,” Geralt growled. “He lost his memory from knocking his head.”

“So he knocked his head before he fell into the lake?”

“No! He was knocked down, hit his head and lost his memory. Then he crashed through the ice and nearly drowned and might freeze to death despite his high fever because apparently I'm on trial right now and kept from getting him inside!”

Eskel perked a brow. “You _knocked_ him down so hard that he broke through a frozen lake?”

“Eskel! Enough of it! See to Roach, rub her down and feed her, she looks spent.” Vesemir appeared in the doorway, signalling to Eskel with a nod of his head to do as he was told. Then he focused his attention on Geralt.

Geralt shifted Jaskier's body on his shoulder, then he took a deep breath, stepping up to where Vesemir was waiting. “There was an incident in a tavern where we got into a fight. He was knocked down and after he regained consciousness he couldn't remember anything, at least nothing in relation to me or our.... well. He can't remember me. This morning he stepped onto a frozen lake and crushed through the ice. He developed a high fever during the day and fell into unconsciousness around afternoon. Can you help him?”

Vesemir stepped aside to let Geralt enter, following him to the great hall. “I'm no healer, but I know a few things about this and that. Important is that he gets rid of the fever and regains his normal temperature. I know it's not good if a hypothermic human body is warmed too fast, I hope his body temperature was back to normal _before_ he developed the fever.”

Geralt grunted, because, _naturally_ , he had no idea what Jaskier's body temperature had been before he had caught the fever. What he knew for sure was that the bard had been unresponsive all day and that his heart beat had been irregular and weak. That was reason enough for Geralt to worry, even without Vesemir's alarming statement.

Vesemir led them to his own rooms where a lively fire flickered in the fireplace, heating the grand room. “Lay him down on the bed and strip him,” Vesemir ordered, walking to a huge cabinet where Geralt knew his mentor kept all his herbs and potions and elixirs.

Geralt did as he was told and unwrapped the multiple layers of sweat-soaked fabric from around Jaskier until he had reached the undergarments. Then he tucked him up.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Geralt turned to the man who had been a surrogate father to him for longer than he remembered. “Can you help him?” he repeated his question from before.

“We'll see,” Vesemir replied as noncommittally and cryptically as ever. He picked a few tins and vials from the shelves and turned. Squinting his eyes, he looked Geralt up and down. “Maybe I should patch you up first before looking after your friend.” 

Geralt looked down his chest and realised that half of his shirt was soaked in blood. Apparently, the stab wound in his side had reopened when he had fought to get Jaskier out of the lake. “That's nothing, just an old wound that has reopened. I'll see to it later.”

Vesemir perked a brow but left it at that and pushed past Geralt to set down his tins and vials on the bedside table. “I'll look after him. Go and take a bath and get something to eat and Eskel should look after your wounds. I presume there are more.”

Geralt grunted but made no move to leave.

Vesemir, who had felt Jaskier's temperature and studied the overall condition of the bard, turned his head. “I'll give him something to bring down the fever and rekindle his spirits. If he had warmed up too fast from the outside while the veins still pumped cold blood to his heart, I guess he would be dead by now. I think we'll just have to ensure that the fever breaks soon. Send Osbert to me, he can help me with some cold compresses.”

Geralt still didn't move, his gaze wandering to and fro between Vesemir and Jaskier.

“I believe he will not die, if that's what you're worrying about. Regarding the memory loss, however, I'm not sure there's anything we can do. I've treated brain concussions and head injuries, but I've no idea if there's something you can do for the loss of memory.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied. That was not quite what he had hoped to hear, though Vesemir's estimation that the bard would live lifted a heavy weight from his mind. He nodded his thanks and turned to go in search for Osbert.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been the last chapter of the story, but somehow suddenly the muse disapproved of this plan and wanted more fluff and more answers, so chapter count has increased by one. ;-)  
> Anyway, many thanks to everyone who read, left kudos or commented. 🤎

Of all the witchers in the keep it had, of course, to be Lambert who found Geralt the next morning, standing by Jaskier's bed, brooding.

During the night, Geralt had returned to the bard's sickbed after a long bath and enduring Eskel patching him up. He had watched the bard toss, turn and mutter in his febrile delirium until Vesemir had given him another potion which had led to a more peaceful sleep. Sometime near dawn, Vesemir had left and Geralt had stayed, keeping guard, even if he wouldn't phrase it so.

“What do you fear more?” Lambert asked mockingly instead of a greeting, standing right beside Geralt. “That he will never regain his memory or that he will, but not remember how much you actually meant to him? Because I'm sure _you_ certainly never showed how much you really care for _him._ ”

“Fuck off!” Geralt grunted.

“Yeah, I see.” Lambert smirked. “You shit yourself because even _if_ he remembers you were friends, you fear you might never be able to gain his trust again, let alone win his love and devotion. Knowing you, I'm sure all these years you've done your best to make him believe that he's nothing more to you than a pet one keeps around for entertainment, right? And now that you've lost your puppy you wish he'd remember how much you loved him.”

Geralt growled, darting a killing glance at Lambert. “I swear if you don't shut up instantly...” he hissed, leaving open what he would do to the other witcher if he carried on.

To his surprise, Lambert actually fell silent and buggered off. Whether it was because of the unuttered threat or the emotions Geralt himself heard resonating in his voice, he didn't know but appreciated it nonetheless. He was unusually tense and might have beaten Lambert to a pulp if he had said another word.

Geralt couldn't deny how hard it had hit him when Jaskier had said he wasn't his friend, though at the beginning it had always been he who had time and again reminded the bard that they were not friends, just travelling companions. That he needed no one and how easy it would be for him to walk away from the bard without looking back. But that wasn't true, not any more. Jaskier was even more than a friend, but that was something Geralt had never wanted to delve into more intensely. And now he didn't know if he would ever have the chance to find out.

A while later, Eskel came by and brought something to eat and put more wood on the fire. Silently, they stood side by side, watching the sleeping bard, until Eskel put his hand on Geralt's shoulder.

“How horrible it is to love something that death can touch,” he said softly, giving Geralt's shoulder a firm squeeze. Then he left.

Looking down at Jaskier's still face, Geralt bent over to get a closer look. The fever had receded, Jaskier’s skin was no longer feverish and sweaty, only a soft rose tint covered his cheeks. He looked relaxed and peaceful, gone was the harried expression that had accompanied his fevered dreams. Geralt bent over further. Sleeping peacefully, the bard looked even younger than he really was, and with a pang of emotions, Geralt was reminded again of the short life span of humans. To think that Jaskier would be dead and gone while Geralt still roamed the continent in his endless fight against monsters hurt more than Geralt had thought it ever could.

Maybe he had gone soft over the years, or his will had inadvertently yielded to Jaskier's constant words of praise and openly displayed familiarity, or maybe he had just been alone for too long, but there was no more denying the fact that he loved this man. Yielding to a sudden, irresistible urge he closed the short distance between Jaskier's and his face and softly kissed the bard. Briefly he closed his eyes, taking in the softness of Jaskier's warm lips that tasted of salt and Vesemir's herbs, and the bard's scent that was almost back to his usual fragrance of briar ink, deer suet and bergamot. He wondered how much better this would feel if Jaskier kissed back. Reluctantly he ended the kiss and opened his eyes, once more soaking up the look of Jaskier's calm face. A second later, Jaskier stirred, his eyelashes flattering before he opened his eyes at long last.

Huh?” Jaskier gasped, startled. “Geralt!”

Geralt straightened himself. “Jaskier, you're awake.”

“What...? Did you, did you just--?” Jaskier squinted at Geralt inquiringly, then lifted his head to look around. “Where are we?”

“Kaer Morhen.”

“The witcher keep?”

“Hmm.”

“Good gracious!” Jaskier cried, propping himself up on his elbows. “You mean we are in the infamous witcher keep full of witchers?” He stared at Geralt wide-eyed.

Dread pooled in Geralt's guts. “Calm down, it's--”

Jaskier sat up, his face beaming. “You mean I can finally meet some other witchers? Ask for adventure tales? Get to hear fantastic stories full of heroic deeds? Imagine all the _songs_ I can write!” Full of excitement, Jaskier threw away the blanket and hopped out of the bed. “They will talk to me, won't they? When can I get to-- Oh! Wohoho, wait,” he interrupted himself, his mien changing from excitement to disappointment. He looked at Geralt. “They are like you, aren't they?” he asked warily.

_What the--?!_

While Geralt wondered why in the world Jaskier was suddenly so keen on meeting other witchers and simultaneously still afraid of _him_ , the bard carried on cheerfully, “Nah, I guess it'll be okay. I'm sure your peevishness is already the bottom of witchery grumpiness, it can't get worse. Reputation precedes them. I mean, I have to admit when I first met you, I was a bit wary of witchers, one did hear this and that and - _Oh,_ ” Jaskier suddenly breathed, looking at Geralt with a mixture of astonishment and discomfort. “Oh! Oh _dear!_ ”

“What?” Geralt barked, gradually loosing patience. _And had he heard right that Jaskier just admitted to remembering their first encounter?_

“I, uh, I'm so sorry.” Jaskier looked at Geralt, his expression reflecting regret and bewilderment. “What came over me? Did I... I mean, uh, the last couple of days, or was it weeks? I treated you like...,“ he trailed off.

“Shit?” Geralt finished the sentence.

“I would have chosen another word but yes, I guess that's appropriate, right? I can't-- Why did I do it? I was very unkind and you-- You were...”

“Nice? Kind? Saving your ass?” Geralt suggested.

Jaskier nodded mechanically, his eyes growing distant, fixing on a point over Geralt shoulder. “I didn't remember that we knew each other, that we're friends. I thought you would-- You were--. Well, you must believe me that nothing of what I said was meant that way. I didn't...” Jaskier's focus returned to Geralt. “That's a bit much at the moment.”

Jaskier swayed and Geralt held him.

“You should probably lie down again.” Gently, Geralt forced Jaskier to sit down. “It's seems you've finally regained your memory. I was a bit worried the gaps in your mind would become permanent.”

Jaskier reclined, tapping his forehead. “We were on the way to Redania and I remember this brute who insulted me and knocked me down. And I came to again and had no idea where I was or what had happened and you dragged me along and I was really afraid of you,” he said ruefully.

“I noticed.”

Pleadingly, Jaskier looked up. “I'm really sorry, I just had no recollection of anything in relation to you. I thought--” he broke off.

“You thought what? Because I'd really like to know. Given the chutzpah and total lack of survival instinct you displayed back in the days when you decided to follow me around even though I _told_ you I didn't want your company, or help, I was under the impression you feared nothing, least of all witchers.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, my behaviour did seem perhaps a bit exaggerated. But in my defence, the last thing I remembered was my time in Oxenfurt, so you must understand my surprise and lack of understanding when I suddenly found myself in company of a witcher.” Jaskier chuckled, evidently embarrassed.

“And?” 

Jaskier blinked. “And what?”

“Are you going to tell me what has happened to you? It seemed to me that a fear of witchers is so deeply ingrained in your soul it must stem from more than just the usual slander. What happened?”

Jaskier gazed at Geralt. “What? Nothing happened. It's just, uh, it's not relevant. And it has definitely nothing to do with you. Believe me when I say it doesn't matter.”

“But it does matter. I want to know.”

Jaskier started fidgeting. “It's really nothing and such a long time ago that I hardly remember, and you proved it wrong anyway from the day we met. I'm not afraid of you, Geralt, really, and I'm sorry I gave the impression this was not the case. You must believe me.”

“I do. I can smell it, the stench of fear has gone. But that doesn't change the fact that--” Geralt was interrupted.

“I see your friend is up and looks much better. He should eat something,” Vesemir said, entering the room. “Give him some rest,” he added in an undertone, turning to Geralt. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

Geralt twisted his mouth. “Sure, but first he owes me an explanation. He never mentioned anything and I want to know where this attitude he displayed towards witchers came from.”

To Geralt, it seemed that Jaskier's fear stemmed not from most people's common belief in the heinousness of witchers but originated from something else. He wanted a name, and if he would find out that another witcher was responsible for it or had even dared to lay hands on Jaskier, then woe betide whoever it was.

Jaskier kept silent, sheepishly tugging at the blanket.

“I think I know why,” Vesemir finally said after the awkward silence between them stretched for too long, turning to Geralt. “You said he studied in Oxenfurt?”

“Hm.”

“I know of a professor who taught there for many years, history and fine arts if I'm not mistaken. He was a bred-in-the-bone enemy of witchers and didn't miss a chance to tell his students horror stories. In fact, some even said the only field of study he really taught was witcher horror stories. I've no idea where his hate and aversion came from but it was easy for him to inculcate it in his young students, most of them coming freshly from a sheltered life, that witchers were the true and only evil in the world, despicable mutants that need to be wiped from the earth. I heard there had been some incidents, too.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier. “Is that the reason?”

“Yeah, well, what can I say?” Jaskier grumbled. “I was fifteen! Lettenhove is not exactly in the thick of the action, before I started studies at Oxenfurt I didn't even _know_ witchers existed. And he could be very convincing and there _were_ some incidents I heard of involving one or two witchers and some of my fellow students even had-- Oh come on, you know how people talk about the likes of you! Sorry, no offence!” he added sheepishly.

Geralt laughed softly.

“You should rest now. I'll be back to bring you something to eat.” Vesemir nodded to Geralt to follow him out of the room. “Eskel says he's not happy with how your wounds are healing.”

“One wound, and it's healing perfectly fine,” Geralt grunted.

“He says there are more. I'll have a look and then you need some rest, too. You look awful.”

After Vesemir had taken a closer look at Geralt's numerous wounds and scars and put ointments on some of them and re-bandaged some others, Geralt finally stretched out on his bed to get a nap. He felt well and truly drained.

*******

When Geralt woke, it was already dark outside and he realised he had slept longer than he'd intended to. Someone must have been to his room in the meantime and stoked the fire and put bread and dried meat on the table. Geralt sat up, stretching. He felt every muscle in his body ache. 

He ate a bite and then went to Vesemir's room to look after Jaskier, only to find that the bed was empty. He turned to Vesemir who was occupied with herbs, mortar and pestle.

“Where's Jaskier?”

“As far away as humanly possible, I hope.”

“What?” Geralt asked startled.

Vesemir turned, a pained expression on his face. “He asked for paper and ink and I was foolish enough to give him some.” He glowered at Geralt as if it had been his fault.

Which it probably was. 

Geralt smirked.

“I've sent him away to ask someone else for detailed recounts of witcher deeds.”

Geralt's smirk spread. “Yeah, he has a way of being a pain in the arse.”

“We need to talk,” someone said at Geralt's back.

In the door to Vesemir's room stood Lambert along with Osbert, Eskel and Gardis.

“How long will the minstrel stay? He seems fit enough to be send on his way,” Lambert said, ignoring Geralt's frown and looking straight to Vesemir.

“And where should he go? Look outside, not even you would last long in this storm, and the next settlement is days away,” Vesemir replied calmly.

“That's not my problem,” Lambert said, turning to Geralt. “You know it's not allowed to bring humans to Kaer Morhen.”

“You mean unlike the whores you bring all the time?” Geralt hissed.

Lambert smirked. “Right, equal rights for all. If you see it that way, I guess then it's okay that you brought your bard along.”

Eskel smacked Lambert on the head. Hard.

“Lambert, there's wood that needs to be chopped, maybe you can make yourself useful.” Vesemir held Lambert's gaze until the witcher turned and left, grumbling under his breath.

“Jaskier can stay here as long as you wish, but he's your responsibility. If he sees things he can't cope with, or if he makes one of the others livid and they run out of patience with him, it's your problem,” Vesemir said.

“Right,” Geralt grunted. He had the feeling it wouldn't take long until the bard had annoyed each of the other witchers to an extent that he would have to tie him up and tape his mouth shut.

Or he would have to occupy him with something else, Geralt mused as his gaze lingered on the bed Jaskier had previously occupied.

********

Geralt had just kicked off his boots and stretched on his bed again when there was a knock on the door. He waited, but nothing happened. 

Then another knock.

He couldn't remember anybody ever knocking at anyone's door in the keep. Usually, you just opened the door and barged in, regardless of whether someone liked it or not. He wondered whether any response was expected of him.

“Geralt? Are you there?”

The door opened a bit and Jaskier's head appeared in the crack of the door. “Ah, there you are, I wasn't sure if this was the right room.” He pushed the door open and stepped in.

Geralt sat up.

“What on earth are you witchers adding to your beer?” Jaskier asked before yawning long and extensively.

“The really good stuff,” Geralt smirked, knowing Jaskier would probably be drunk after only one cup of the strong beer. Now this was getting interesting...

“I'm not sure if I thanked you properly for saving my life. Twice even,” Jaskier said, giving the door in his back a kick with his boot and it shut with a bang. “Vesemir said his rooms are not an inn and I would be your problem now, whatever that means. Anyway, he said I can sleep here.” Jaskier changed the topic without batting an eye, looking around the room. “Not the first time we’ve shared a room, but I guess your witcher boss certainly knows this.” He chuckled and took another sip.

“He's not our boss.”

Geralt wondered if the bard had already had more than that cup of beer. Maybe one of the others had thought it funny to make the bard drunk and amuse himself at the bard's expense later. Or with him, Geralt thought with a growl.

“In fact, he knew quite a bit about me, one could nearly get the impression you guys actually _talk_ to each other. As in, you know, using your mouth, not your fists or swords. Anyway, most of them were really quite talkative, unlike you. At least in the beginning, they lost interest in sharing stories after a while, though.” Jaskier frowned. “Kind of fast if I think of it now,” he drawled.

“You don't say. I heard Vesemir is already bitterly regretting giving you quill and paper.” He was surely not the only witcher on the continent who was the opposite of talkative, as Jaskier would soon find out.

Jaskier's head snapped up. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Speaking of, for once there's one thing I want to hear from _you_. What about Oxenfurt? Why didn't you want to go there, and have you ever been there over winter at all?” Geralt asked, disregarding the bard's comment.

“Why, yes! I've spent the last... hm, six, maybe seven, winters in Oxenfurt. Where else should I have stayed? I mean, you never suggested that I could come here with you, an offer I would gladly have accepted had you ever offered it, and winter in Lettenhove is such a dull affair that it's sufficient enough to spend a week there for the annual festivities in the new year.”

“You can't deny you rather wanted to go to Kaer Morhen with me instead of Oxenfurt, even though you were scared shitless of me, and witchers in general. Why? What happened in Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier resumed walking around the room, looking at this and that and obviously not in Geralt's direction.

“Nothing, really. It's just that I didn’t remember it's been years since I left university and I thought it was just the year I graduated and the prospect of meeting Valdo there was just...“ Jaskier trailed off.

“Valdo?

“Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris,” Jaskier recited, his voice dripping with loathing. “He's the last person I ever want to see again in my life and I know, I mean I knew he stayed in Oxenfurt over winter, at least sometimes, and--. Never mind. He was never again there when I was, and if, I made sure that our paths never crossed.”

“That's the only reason?” Something in the bard's voice told Geralt that there was more behind this, even though he believed Jaskier that he hadn't lied, at least in regard to his wintering in Oxenfurt.

Jaskier had finished his walk around the small room and stopped in front of Geralt.

“Yes. I haven't seen him in years and it's not worth speaking of him any more. _He_ is not worth speaking of. Least of all now. If I hadn't lost eight years of memory of my life, I would currently be in Oxenfurt and would have missed all this. I think it was well worth losing my memory for a while.”

They looked at each other for a long moment until finally Jaskier stepped up to the bed and plunked down beside Geralt.

Unusually serious, Jaskier continued quietly. “I mean it. Thank you for... everything. I know I can be a pain in the neck even without losing my memory and spouting venom.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I'm really sorry for all the bad things I said to you. It was mean and untrue and I don't know why you even care about me.”

_Because I love you..._

“Because you're my friend,” Geralt replied sincerely.

Jaskier took another sip, swallowing audibly. “When I woke, earlier, I had--. Uh, I mean, before I woke up. Did you...” Jaskier broke off.

Geralt waited.

“Ah, never mind,” Jaskier mumbled finally.

With a deep sigh seemingly coming from the depths of his soul, Jaskier leaned his head against Geralt's shoulder, slowly and cautiously. “I never thought I would ever be allowed to see where you come from. It's nice,” he said drowsily, yawning again.

It was hard to tell whether Jaskier's behaving and the slurred speech was owed to indulging in too much of the strong beer, or Vesemir's healing potions, or Jaskier's tiredness. Geralt didn't care, he put his arm around the bard's shoulder and pulled him tightly close.

“It's nice to have you here,” he replied softly.

Geralt looked around his room, the place he had learned to call home for as long as he remembered. The only place where he could be what he was without being judged or rejected. Pensively, he watched the flames in the fireplace licking at the logs. Suddenly he was hyperaware of the cosiness of the room and the warmth of Jaskier's body at his side and how ridiculously soft his mattress felt. There was even a bottle of wine on the table. Good preconditions, he thought. Undoubtedly, he had had sex in less pleasant places.

Gently he took the tankard from Jaskier's hand and put it on the bedside table. A smile played around the corners of Geralt's mouth and he knew that the next time he stripped the bard it would definitely happen under more comfortable circumstances than previously, and with a far more pleasant outcome. 

For both of them.


	6. Epilogue

~ Epilogue ~

With his arms folded behind his head, Geralt stared at the ceiling where the pale early morning light painted blueish patterns. He tried to remember when he had last woken with such a satisfied, pleased feeling without having to pay for it afterwards. Or in advance, as was more often the case. Admittedly, not all - whores or others - were averse to bedding a witcher, but their willingness never exceeded the point that they didn't want to get rewarded for it. 

Yennefer, of course, was the sole exception, but Geralt doubted that love was the moving force behind her motivation. Lust, desire and mutual attraction along with the spell she had used to cloud his mind were the ingredients of their quick, intense lovemaking if they happened to cross each other’s paths every once in a while, but never was it love. While no money changed hands, Geralt could never shake off the feeling that he paid for it nonetheless, with something of more worth than money.

Beside Geralt, Jaskier moved, and his thoughts returned to the bard and the night they had spent together. In all the time they had been travelling together, Jaskier had never given the impression that he was attracted to men. On the contrary, Geralt's ears were literally still bleeding from all the amorous affairs with women Jaskier had boasted about, with more than just a few of them ending in serious trouble for the bard due to cuckolded husbands. Yet he had noticed that despite Jaskier's initial demureness, it had certainly not been the first time the bard had bedded a man. A fact, Geralt was inclined to explore further, in addition to the far from satisfactory answers he had received regarding Oxenfurt and Valdo Marx. By now, he knew Jaskier too well to miss what the bard disclosed by the things he _didn't_ tell.

And Geralt was not yet satisfied with the answers he had been given.

Jaskier moved again and Geralt turned his head, watching the sleeping bard. Kaer Morhen had never before felt more like home to him than at this moment. Life was good the way it was right now and he knew it was due in no small part to the man lying beside him. He turned sideways and put his arm around Jaskier's body, pulling the bard closer. Geralt knew it was just an illusion of a life he would never have, but if he could have this for just a short span of his life, he would take what he could get.

Jaskier stirred and Geralt sensed when then bard finally woke because he felt him tense the moment he seemed to realise he was not lying in bed alone. A second or two later, the bard relaxed again and opened his eyes.

“Uh, Geralt, you're awake.”

“Obviously.” Geralt brushed a strand of hair off Jaskier's forehead and let his hand slide over the bard's ruffled hair.

“That's uh, well, it's--,” Jaskier broke off and chuckled nervously, peeking at Geralt.

“At least you still remember who I am. That's a relief,” Geralt finally said, letting his hand slide over Jaskier's neck and further down along his spine.

“Oi, that's unfair, it wasn't my fault that I couldn't remember you! And, er, well this... It's a bit--”

“Awkward?” Geralt grinned while running small circles over Jaskier's lower back with his hand.

“In need of getting used to was what I meant, but yeah, that too. I didn't know, I mean, I never thought you would be interested in, uh, this. You never gave the impression that, you know, you would be, er, interested in me in any other way than just as a--”

Geralt leaned over and stopped Jaskier's stammering by sealing his lips with a deep kiss. Despite having spent a lot of time during the night exploring every part of Jaskier's body, Geralt still took his time to delve into the depths of the bard's mouth again. Jaskier's tongue was in no way subservient to his, daring him for more, and Geralt happily obliged. Squeezing Jaskier's buttocks firmly, he elicited a moan from him and finally ended the kiss before he couldn't keep himself from devouring the bard again. First, he wanted answers.

Geralt rolled on his back. “There are a couple of things that are a bit vague still and I would like some answers.”

“What? Now?” Jaskier panted, propping himself up on his elbows and glowering at Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier heaved a sigh and also rolled on his back, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders.

“I understand why you were so awfully afraid of witchers. Your professor is just one among many who never tires of spreading lies and horror stories. I get that and I really appreciate that you managed to shake off his opinion before we met, though, with this in mind, it's somehow still a mystery to me how you worked up the courage to approach me, or wanted to befriend me at all.” Geralt turned his head to look a Jaskier.

“But you can't deny that apparently your fear of meeting this Valdo Marx again still exceeded your fear of witchers. You were willing to go and face a pack of witchers instead of returning to Oxenfurt and run the risk of meeting him there. What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier replied quickly. “I just can't stand him, that’s all.”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier sat up. “Is there breakfast or how does this work here? I'm hungry, and I really need to pee.”

“Don't change the subject, it's not even subtle. I may lack any soppy sentiment, but I can still read between the lines."

“Why are you so aggressively interested in my past? Until yesterday, you didn’t bother about anything I ever told you. Most of the time you don't even listen to what I talk about.”

“Your scowl would be more convincing if you didn’t look like a scared chicken.”

Jaskier huffed.

“Well?”

Jaskier sighed, slouching his shoulders. “Your sudden obsession with Valdo is a bit alarming, but there! It's nothing mystic. I was young and let myself get bedazzled by him when I met him at university. He has a way of convincing everyone to believe everything he says. I learned the hard way that he was not who he purported to be. When I wanted to break it off with him, he disapproved and it resulted in hurt and pain. That's all.”

“Hurt and pain for him or for you?”

Jaskier shrugged his shoulder.

Geralt knew the answer anyway, he could read it from Jaskier's face. He made a decision. Valdo Marx, should he ever happen to have the bad luck to cross Geralt's path, would bitterly regret ever having laid eyes on Jaskier, let alone laid hands upon him.

“And he never returned to Oxenfurt over winter?” Geralt asked, just to make sure there was nothing else he needed to know in this matter.

The door opened and Eskel walked in.

Startled, Jaskier hopped out of bed, though Eskel's entrance seemed to be a most welcome relief for the bard from the unpleasant conversation with Geralt.

Jaskier was all smiles. “Ah, Eskel, good morning! Good to see you! Yesterday you said you wanted to tell me more about the incident with some witchers from the School of the Bear. I'd really like to hear more of that.”

Eskel stopped, slowly looking the bard up and down appraisingly. Leering, he licked his lips. “Now I understand why you dragged him along all these years and why you are so possessive of him,” Eskel said towards Geralt before his gaze returned to the bard's lower region.

Jaskier looked down his front, apparently only now realising that he was completely naked. He squeaked and grabbed a garment from the floor, covering his private parts with it.

Eskel and Geralt exchanged a quick look before they burst out in a hearty laugh, causing the bard to blush even more.

“Exactly,” Geralt finally replied when their laughter died down.

Jaskier glowered at Geralt. “You'll soon be laughing on the other side of your face. Both of you.”

The last remains of mirth faded from Geralt's face.

Questioningly Eskel looked at Geralt, perking a brow.

“That's a serious threat, brother,” Geralt answered Eskel's unuttered question. “He can be a real pain in the arse if he wants to. In fact, he is even if he _doesn't_ intend to be. You'd better watch out.”

With a flicker of uncertainty due to Geralt's statement, Eskel looked to and fro between the Witcher and his bard. “Anyway, I just wanted to ask whether you're free for sparring today. I don't really fancy pitting my strength against Lambert any more. He cheats.”

Geralt nodded, glancing at Jaskier. “Later. There's something else I need to do first.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt.

Geralt returned his gaze.

Eskel silently slipped out of the room.

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> The Witcher/Wiedźmin is property of Andrzej Sapkowski (books) and Netflix (show). I only borrowed the characters of the show for this work of fan fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.


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